THE MOTHER.
I do not believe that there is anything sweeter in the world than the ideas which awake in a mother's heart at the sight of her child's tiny shoe； especially if it is a shoe for festivals， for Sunday， for baptism， the shoe embroidered to the very sole， a shoe in which the infant has not yet taken a step.
That shoe has so much grace and daintiness， it is so impossible for it to walk， that it seems to the mother as though she saw her child. She smiles upon it， she kisses it， she talks to it； she asks herself whether there can actually be a foot so tiny； and if the child be absent， the pretty shoe suffices to place the sweet and fragile creature before her eyes. She thinks she sees it， she does see it， complete， living， joyous， with its delicate hands， its round head， its pure lips， its serene eyes whose white is blue. If it is in winter， it is yonder， crawling on the carpet， it is laboriously climbing upon an ottoman， and the mother trembles lest it should approach the fire. If it is summer time， it crawls about the yard， in the garden， plucks up the grass between the paving-stones， gazes innocently at the big dogs， the big horses， without fear， plays with the shells， with the flowers， and makes the gardener grumble because he finds sand in the flower-beds and earth in the paths. Everything laughs， and shines and plays around it， like it， even the breath of air and the ray of sun which vie with each other in disporting among the silky ringlets of its hair. The shoe shows all this to the mother， and makes her heart melt as fire melts wax.
But when the child is lost， these thousand images of joy， of charms， of tenderness， which throng around the little shoe， become so many horrible things. The pretty broidered shoe is no longer anything but an instrument of torture which eternally crushes the heart of the mother. It is always the same fibre which vibrates， the tenderest and most sensitive；but instead of an angel caressing it， it is a demon who is wrenching at it.
One May morning， when the sun was rising on one of those dark blue skies against which Garofolo loves to place his Descents from the Cross， the recluse of the Tour-Roland heard a sound of wheels， of horses and irons in the Place de Grève.
She was somewhat aroused by it， knotted her hair upon her ears in order to deafen herself， and resumed her contemplation， on her knees， of the inanimate object which she had adored for fifteen years. This little shoe was the universe to her， as we have already said. Her thought was shut up in it， and was destined never more to quit it except at death.
The sombre cave of the Tour-Roland alone knew how many bitter imprecations， touching complaints， prayers and sobs she had wafted to heaven in connection with that charming bauble of rose-colored satin. Never was more despair bestowed upon a prettier and more graceful thing.
It seemed as though her grief were breaking forth more violently than usual； and she could be heard outside lamenting in a loud and monotonous voice which rent the heart.
"Oh my daughter！" she said， "my daughter， my poor， dear little child， so I shall never see thee more！ It is over！
It always seems to me that it happened yesterday！ My God！ my God！ it would have been better not to give her to me than to take her away so soon. Did you not know that our children are part of ourselves， and that a mother who has lost her child no longer believes in God？ Ah！ wretch that I am to have gone out that day！ Lord！ Lord！ to have taken her from me thus； you could never have looked at me with her， when I was joyously warming her at my fire， when she laughed as she suckled， when I made her tiny feet creep up my breast to my lips？ Oh！ if you had looked at that， my God， you would have taken pity on my joy； you would not have taken from me the only love which lingered， in my heart！
