er. A
mother forgets all she has suffered at the birth of her child so
quickly--why should I not forget those horrors to-day too? Do
look"--and she stroked little Jean-Pierre's warm rosy cheek carefully
and caressingly as he slept--"how innocent, how lovely. I am so happy.
Come, do be happy too, Paul, you are generally so very kind. And now
let's think about what we are to call the boy"--her voice was very
tender--"our boy."

They no longer heard the wind that had increased to a storm by now.
They had so much to consider. "Jean-Pierre," no, that name should not
be kept in any case. And they would go from Spa to Cologne that
evening, as they would not dare to engage a nurse before they were
there; not a single person there would have any idea about the Venn, of
course. And they would also buy all the things they required for the
child in Cologne as soon as possible.

How were they to get on until then? Paul looked at his wife quite
anxiously: she knew nothing whatever about little children. But she
laughed at him and gave herself airs: when Providence gives you
something to do, it also gives you the necessary understanding. And
this little darling was so good, he had not uttered a sound since they
left. He had slept the whole time as though there was nothing called
hunger or thirst, as though there was nothing but her heart on
which he felt quite at ease.

It gradually became more comfortable in the carriage. It seemed as
though a beneficial warmth streamed forth from the child's body, as it
rested there so quietly. The breath of life ascended from its strong
little chest that rose and fell so regularly; the joy of life glowed in
its cheeks that were growing redder and redder; the blessings of life
dropped from those tiny hands that it had clenched in its sleep. The
woman mused in silence and with bated breath as she gazed at the child
in her lap, and the man, who felt strangely moved, took its tiny fist
in his large hand and examined it, smiling. Yes, now they were
parents.

But outside the carriage the air was full of horrors. It is only in
the wild Venn that there can be such storms in autumn. Summer does not
depart gently and sadly there, winter does not approach with soft,
stealthy steps, there is no mild preparatory transition. The bad
weather sets in noisily there, and the warmth of summer changes
suddenly into the icy cold of winter. The storm whistles so fiercely
across the brown plateau that the low heath