She became enceinte.

At first she doubted, she dared not believe it. But when she was certain of the fact, she was filled with immeasurable joy, a joy that overflowed her heart. Her happiness was so great and so overpowering that it stifled at a single stroke the anguish, the fear, the inward trembling that ordinarily disturb the maternity of unmarried women and poisons their anticipations of childbirth, the divine hope that lives and moves within them. The thought of the scandal caused by the discovery of her liaison, of the outcry in the quarter, the idea of the abominable thing that had always made her think of suicide: dishonor, even the fear of being detected by mademoiselle and dismissed by her nothing of all this could cast a shadow on her felicity. The child that she expected allowed her to see nothing but it, as if she had it already in her arms before her; and, hardly attempting to conceal her condition, she bore her woman’s shame almost proudly through the streets, exulting and radiant in the thought that she was to be a mother.

She was unhappy only because she had spent all her savings, and was not only without money but had been paid several months’ wages in advance by her mistress. She bitterly deplored having to receive her child in a poor way. Often, as she passed through Rue Saint-Lazare, she would stop in front of a linen-draper’s, in whose windows were displayed stores of rich baby-linen. She would devour with her eyes the pretty, dainty flowered garments, the pique bibs, the long short-waisted dresses trimmed with English embroidery, the whole doll-like cherub’s costume. A terrible longing, the longing of a pregnant woman, to break the glass and steal it all, would come upon her: the clerks standing behind the display framework became accustomed to seeing her take up her station there and would laughingly point her out to one another.

Again, at intervals, amid the happiness that overflowed her heart, amid the ecstasy that exalted her being, another disturbing thought passed through her mind. She would ask herself how the father would welcome his child. Two or three times she had attempted to tell him of her condition but had not dared. At last, one day, seeing that his face wore the expression she had awaited so long as a preliminary to telling him everything, an expression in which there was a touch of affection, she confessed to him, blushing hotly and as if asking his forgiveness, what it was that made her so happy.

“That’s all imagination!” said Jupillon.

And when she had assured him that it was not imagination and that she was positively five months advanced in pregnancy: “Just my luck!” the young man rejoined. “Thanks!” And he swore. “Would you mind telling me who’s going to feed the sparrow?”

“Oh! never you fear! it sha’n’t suffer, I’ll look out for that. And then it’ll be so pretty! Don’t be afraid, no one shall know anything about it. I’ll fix myself up. See! the last part of the time I’ll walk like this, with my head back I won’t wear any petticoats, and I’ll pull myself in you’ll see! Nobody shall notice anything, I tell you. Just think of it! a little child of our own!”

“Well, as long as it’s so, it’s so, eh?” said the young man.

“Say,” ventured Germinie, timidly, “suppose you should tell your mother?”

“Ma? Oh! no, I rather think not. You must lie in first. After that we’ll take the brat to the house. It will give her a start, and perhaps she’ll consent without meaning to.”