They had long
desired to remain unburdened by children, and now they eagerly longed to
have a child, and none came, though Claire, the wife, was as yet but
six-and-thirty. Her husband, the once gay, handsome musketeer, was
already turning gray and losing his eyesight--to such a degree, indeed,
that he could scarcely see well enough to continue his profession as a
fan-painter.
When Madame Angelin went to Paris she often called on Constance, to whom,
before long, she confided all her worries. She had been in a doctor's
hands for three years, but all to no avail, and now during the last six
months she had been consulting a person in the Rue de Miromesnil, a
certain Madame Bourdieu, said she.
Constance at first made light of her friend's statements, and in part
declined to believe her. But when she found herself alone she felt
disquieted by what she had heard. Perhaps she would have treated the
matter as mere idle tittle-tattle, if she had not already regretted that
she herself had no second child. On the day when the unhappy Morange had
lost his only daughter, and had remained stricken down, utterly alone in
life, she had experienced a vague feeling of anguish.
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