To him this renewal of their former relations was a duty, though hardly an unpleasant one, while she submitted to his embraces as a disgusting, painful necessity, and resolved to put an end to them for ever, as soon as her object was accomplished. Soon, however, she found that her husband's caresses were not like they used to be; they may have been more refined, they certainly were not so complete. He treated her like a careful lover, instead of being an easy husband. "Why do you not give yourself up to me as you used to do?" she whispered one night, her lips close to his. "To keep you out of the family way, of course," he answered, with a chuckle. She started. "Don't you wish for any more children, then?" she asked. His amazement was so great, that, for a moment, he was silent; then: "Eh? What do you say?" he exclaimed. "Are you in your right senses? Another child? I should think not, indeed! We've already got one too many, squalling and costing money, and bothering everybody. Another child! No, thank you!" She clasped him in her arms, pressed her lips to his and murmured: "Oh! I entreat you, make me a mother once more." "Don't be so foolish," he replied, angrily. "Pray don't let me hear any more of this nonsense." She said no more, but she resolved to trick him into giving her the happiness she desired. She tried to prolong her kisses, and threw her arms passionately around him, pressing him to her, and pretending a delirium of love she was very far from feeling. She tried every means to make him lose control over himself, but she never once succeeded. Tormented more and more by her desire, driven to extremities, and ready to do or dare anything to gain her ends, she went again to the Abbe Picot. She found him just finishing lunch, with his face crimson from indigestion. He looked up as she came in, and, anxious to hear the result of his mediation: "Well?" he exclaimed. "My husband does not want any more children," she answered at once without any of the hesitation or shame-faced timidity she had shown before. The abbe got very interested, and turned towards her, ready to hear once more of those secrets of wedded life, the revelation of which made the task of confessing so pleasant to him. "How is that?" he asked. In spite of her determination to tell him all, Jeanne hardly knew how to explain herself. "He--he refuses--to make me a mother." The priest understood at once; it was not the first time he had heard of such things, but he asked for all the details, and enjoyed them as a hungry man would a feast. When he had heard all, he reflected for a few moments, then said in the calm, matter-of-fact tone he might have used if he had been speaking of the best way to insure a good harvest. "My dear child, the only thing you can do is to make your husband believe you are pregnant; then he will cease his precautions, and you will become so in reality."