LUCIE. Everything is better than that. If I consented to that I should feel that I was as bad as the man who seduced her. Be honest, Julien: remember it is in our interest you propose to sacrifice her. We shall gain peace and quiet at the price of her loneliness and despair. To save ourselves trouble—serious trouble, I admit—we are to abandon this child to strangers. She does not know the meaning of harshness or unkindness; and we are to drive her away now—now, of all times! Away from all love and care and comfort, without a friend to put kind arms round her and let her sob her grief away. I implore you, Julien, I entreat you, for our children’s sake, don’t keep me from her, don’t ask me to do this shameful thing. I will _not_ do it! We must do something else. Make _me_ suffer if you like, but don’t add abandonment and loneliness to the misery of my poor little helpless sister. BRIGNAC. There would have been no question of misery if she had behaved herself. LUCIE. She is this man’s victim! But she won’t go. You’ll have to drive her out as you drove out the servant. Have you the courage? Just think of what her life will be. Try to realize the long months of waiting in that dreadful house: the slow development of the poor little creature that she will know beforehand is condemned to all the risks children run when they are separated from their mothers. And when she is torn with tortures, and cries out in that fearful anguish I know so well, and jealous death seems to be hovering over the bed of martyrdom, waiting for mother and child; just when one is overcome by the terror and amazement of the mystery accomplished in oneself; then, then—there’ll be only strangers with her. And if her poor anguished eyes look round for an answering look, perhaps the last; if she feels for a hand to cling to; she will see round her bed only men doing a duty, and women going through a routine. And then—after _that_—she’s to let her child go; to stifle her strongest instinct; to silence the cry of love that consoles us all for the tortures we have to go through; to turn away her eyes and say ’Take him away, I don’t want him.’ And at _that_ price she’s to be forgiven for another person’s crime! BRIGNAC. But what can I do? I can’t alter the world, can I? The world is made like that. If Annette was ten times more innocent she couldn’t stay here. LUCIE. I— BRIGNAC [_violently_] And I don’t choose that she shall stay here. Do you understand? I’m sorry she has to go by herself to Paris. But once more, if she had behaved respectably she wouldn’t be obliged to do it. LUCIE. Oh!