poor little mite. Our little Nicolas died like that. It seemed to me that if I sent him to the Foundlings' Home he'd died also."
"But after?... after?"
"Well, time went on and I thought that as I'd put off going I'd put it off a bit longer."
"How old is he now?"
"Eight."
"Well then, he'll go now to the place where he should have gone sooner, and he won't like it so well now."
"Oh, Jerome, you can't ... you won't do that!"
"Won't I? and who's going to stop me? Do you think we can keep him always?"
There was a moment's silence. I was hardly able to breathe. The lump in my throat nearly choked me. After a time Mother Barberin went on:
"How Paris has changed you! You wouldn't have spoken like that to me before you went away."
"Perhaps not. But if Paris has changed me, it's also pretty near killed me. I can't work now. We've got no money. The cow's sold. When we haven't enough to feed ourselves, have we got to feed a child that don't belong to us?"
"He's mine."
"He's no more yours than mine. Besides, he ain't a country boy. He's no poor man's child. He's a delicate morsel, no arms, no legs."
"He's the prettiest boy in the village!"
