"If he should see him," she thought, "could he help loving him? No; and then he would not dream of parting from me again." Little Frédéric was twenty months old. He had long since ceased to receive nourishment at his mother's breast. He was beginning to take his first steps; every day he walked more steadily. Sister Anne guided him and held him up; she watched the growth of his strength and his faculties. Like the gardener, who observes the changes that the night has wrought in his young plants, a mother observes each day with delight the changes that denote her child's progress. Being at ease in her mind concerning the boy's health, and ensured against want by the sum the count had given her when he went away; moreover, having no doubt that on her arrival in Paris she would find in him a protector and a friend--Sister Anne determined to undertake the journey, and one morning she showed the farmer's wife the paper the count had left with her. That was to announce her purpose. Again her hosts tried to induce her to change her resolution, but this time Sister Anne was immovable; she was determined to leave them and go to Paris; her heart told her that she would find Frédéric there. "Why do you take your child?" said the farmer's wife; "leave him with us; you know how dearly we love him." But Sister Anne could not comprehend a mother's parting from her child for a single instant; she pressed him to her heart, and signified that she would never leave him. "At least," said the good woman, "as you're bent on going to Paris, you won't go on foot, like a beggar. I'll take you in my wagon to Lyon, and there I'll put you into a diligence that will take you and your child to the end of your journey. When you get there, just show the address you've got, and they'll show you the way to the Comte de Montreville's. That gentleman won't turn you away; and when you want to come back to us, he'll find a way to send you back." Sister Anne expressed as best she could her gratitude for all the kindness she had received. The journey being determined on, they turned their attention to the preparations. The villagers bought the young mother linen and clothes and everything that her son needed; they even tried to force money on her; but her purse contained fifty louis; that seemed an enormous sum to her, and much more than sufficient to live on for an indefinite time in Paris, even if the Comte de Montreville should not help her. She refused to accept any more, and the clothes in which she was dressed seemed magnificent to her in comparison with those she had worn in her woods. Her heart throbbed joyfully when she looked at her simple and tasteful costume, which was that of a young farmer's wife of Dauphiné. "He'll think me prettier than before," she thought; "perhaps he'll love me more."