ons. The hatred of the father for his son showed itself in every
detail; he abstained from looking at him or touching him; he would rise
abruptly and leave the room if the child cried; in short, he seemed to
endure it living only through the hope of seeing it die. But even this
self-restraint was galling to the count. The day on which he saw that
the mother's intelligent eye perceived, without fully comprehending,
the danger that threatened her son, he announced his departure on the
morning after the mass for her churching was solemnized, under pretext
of rallying his forces to the support of the king.

Such were the circumstances which preceded and accompanied the birth of
Etienne d'Herouville. If the count had no other reason for wishing the
death of this disowned son poor Etienne would still have been the
object of his aversion. In his eyes the misfortune of a rickety, sickly
constitution was a flagrant offence to his self-love as a father. If
he execrated handsome men, he also detested weakly ones, in whom mental
capacity took the place of physical strength. To please him a man should
be ugly in face, tall, robust, and ignorant. Etienne, whose debility
would bow him, as it were, to the sedentary occupations of knowledge,
was certain to find in his father a natural enemy. His struggle with
that colossus began therefore from his cradle, and his sole support
against that cruel antagonist was the heart of his mother whose love
increased, by a tender law of nature, as perils threatened him.

Buried in solitude after the abrupt departure of the count, Jeanne
de Saint-Savin owed to her child the only semblance of happiness that
consoled her life. She loved him as women love the child of an illicit
love; obliged to suckle him, the duty never wearied her. She would not
let her women care for the child. She dressed and undressed him, finding
fresh pleasures in every little care that he required. Happiness glowed
upon her face as she obeyed the needs of the little being. As Etienne
had come into the world prematurely, no clothes were ready for him,
and those that were needed she made herself,--with what perfection, you
know, ye mothers, who have worked in silence for a treasured child. The
days had never hours long enough for these manifold occupations and the
minute precautions of the nursing mother; those days fled by, laden with
her secret content.

The counsel of the bonesetter still continued in the countess's mind.
She