his fugitives home with him. But Irma did not see the matter
in the same light. She had been dismissed; she took her child with her.
What more natural? Nothing short of the poet's promise that he would
give up all thoughts of marriage decided her to return. Moreover, she
made her own conditions. It had been too long forgotten that she was
Robert's mother. Always to disappear and hide whenever Madame d'Athis
appeared, was no longer possible for her. The child was growing too old
for her to be exposed to such humiliations before him. It was therefore
agreed that as Madame d'Athis had refused to be brought into contact
with her son's mistress, she should no longer go to his house, but that
the child should be brought to her every day.

Then began for the old grandmother a regular torture. Every day fresh
pretexts were made to keep the child away; he had coughed, it was too
cold, it was raining. Then came his walks, rides, gymnastic exercises.
The poor old lady never saw her grandson. At first she tried complaining
to d'Athis; but women alone have the secret of carrying on these little
warfares. Their ruses remain invisible, like the hidden stitches which
catch back the folds and laces of their dress. The poet could see
nothing of it; and the saddened grandmother spent her life in waiting
for her darling's visit, in watching for him in the street, when he
walked out with a servant; and these furtive kisses and hasty glances
only augmented her maternal passion without satisfying it.

During this time, Irma Salle--always by means of the child--succeeded in
gaining ground in the father's heart. She was the recognized head of the
house now, received visitors, gave parties, settled herself as a woman
who means to remain where she is. Still she took care to say from time
to time to the little Vicomte, before his father: "Do you remember the
chickens at Grandpapa Salle's? Shall we go back and see them?"

[Illustration: p204-215]

And by this everlasting threat of departure, she paved the way to the
end she had in view--marriage.

It took her five years to become a Comtesse, but at length she gained
her point. One day, the poet came in fear and trembling to announce to
his mother that he had decided to marry his mistress, and the old lady,
instead of being indignant hailed the calamity as a deliverance, seeing
but one thing in the marriage; the possibility of once more entering her
son's door, and of freely indulging her affec