A strange phenomenon had just been occurring in the mind, the soul of this creature. A natural picture of an humble working life, a simple recital, now lighted up by the soft glimmerings of a domestic fireside, gilded by some joyous rays of the sun, refreshed by the gentle winds of the forest, or perfumed by the odor of wild flowers, had made on La Louve an impression more profound, more striking, than all the exhortations of transcendent morality could have effected. Yes, as Fleur-de-Marie spoke, La Louve had yearned to be an indefatigable housekeeper, an honest wife, a pious and devoted mother. To inspire, even for a moment, a violent, immoral, degraded woman, with a love of family, the respect of duty, the desire to labor, gratitude toward the Creator, and that by promising her merely what God gives to all, the sun of Heaven and the shade of the forest, what man owes to the sweat of his brow, bread and shelter--was it not a triumph for Fleur-de-Marie? Would the moralist the most severe, the preacher the most fulminating, have obtained more by their menacing threats of every vengeance, human and Divine? The angry feelings shown by La Louve when she awoke from her dream to the reality, showed the effects or influence of the words of her companion. The more her regrets were bitter on awakening to the sense of her horrible position, the more the triumph of the Goualeuse was manifest. After a moment of silent reflection, La Louve suddenly raised her head, passed her hand over her face, and arose from her seat, threatening and angry. "You see that I had reason to avoid you, and not listen to you, because it only does me harm! Why have you talked in this way to me?-- to laugh at me? to torment me? And because I was fool enough to tell you that I would like to live in a forest with Martial! But who are you, then? Why do you turn my head in this way? You do not know what you have done, unlucky girl! Now in spite of myself, I shall always be thinking of that wood, that house, those children, all that happiness, which I never shall have--never, never! And if I cannot forget what you have told me, my life will be a torment, a hell; and all by your fault--yes, by your fault!" "So much the better!--oh! so much the better!" said Fleur-de-Marie. "You dare to say so?" cried La Louve, with threatening eyes. "Yes, so much the better; for if your miserable mode of living from henceforth proves a hell, you will prefer that of which I have spoken." "And what good for me to prefer it, since I cannot enjoy it? why regret being a girl of the streets, since I must die one?" cried La Louve, more and more irritated, seizing hold of the small hand of Fleur-de-Marie. "Answer--answer! Why have you made me wish for a life I cannot have?" "To wish for an honest and industrious life is to be worthy of such a life, I have told you," answered Fleur-de-Marie, without seeking to disengage her hand.