Fruitfulness: Chapter 10

Chapter 10

X

MATHIEU finished studying his great scheme, the clearing and cultivation
of Chantebled, and at last, contrary to all prudence but with all the
audacity of fervent faith and hope, it was resolved upon. He warned
Beauchene one morning that he should leave the works at the end of the
month, for on the previous day he had spoken to Seguin, and had found him
quite willing to sell the little pavilion and some fifty acres around it
on very easy terms. As Mathieu had imagined, Seguin's affairs were in a
very muddled state, for he had lost large sums at the gaming table and
spent money recklessly on women, leading indeed a most disastrous life
since trouble had arisen in his home. And so he welcomed the transaction
which Mathieu proposed to him, in the hope that the young man would end
by ridding him of the whole of that unprofitable estate should his first
experiment prove successful. Then came other interviews between them, and
Seguin finally consented to sell on a system of annual payments, spread
over a term of years, the first to be made in two years' time from that
date. As things stood, the property seemed likely to remain
unremunerative forever, and so there was nothing risked in allowing the
purchaser a couple of years' credit. However, they agreed to meet once
more and settle the final details before a formal deed of sale was drawn
up. And one Monday morning, therefore, about ten o'clock, Mathieu set out
for the house in the Avenue d'Antin in order to complete the business.

That morning, as it happened, Celeste the maid received in the linen
room, where she usually remained, a visit from her friend Madame Menoux,
the little haberdasher of the neighborhood, in whose tiny shop she was so
fond of gossiping. They had become more intimate than ever since La
Couteau, at Celeste's instigation, had taken Madame Menoux's child,
Pierre, to Rougemont, to be put out to nurse there in the best possible
way for the sum of thirty francs a month. La Couteau had also very
complaisantly promised to call each month at one or another of her
journeys in order to receive the thirty francs, thereby saving the mother
the trouble of sending the money by post, and also enabling her to obtain
fresh news of her child. Thus, each time a payment became due, if La
Couteau's journey happened to be delayed a single day, Madame Menoux grew
terribly frightened, and hastened off to Celeste to make inquiries of
her. And, moreover, she was glad to have an opportunity of conversing
with this girl, who came from the very part where her little Pierre was
being reared.

"You will excuse, me, won't you, mademoiselle, for calling so early,"
said she, "but you told me that your lady never required you before nine
o'clock. And I've come, you know, because I've had no news from over
yonder, and it occurred to me that you perhaps might have received a
letter."

Blonde, short and thin, Madame Menoux, who was the daughter of a poor
clerk, had a slender pale face, and a pleasant, but somewhat sad,
expression. From her own slightness of build probably sprang her
passionate admiration for her big, handsome husband, who could have
crushed her between his fingers. If she was slight, however, she was
endowed with unconquerable tenacity and courage, and she would have
killed herself with hard work to provide him with the coffee and cognac
which he liked to sip after each repast.

"Ah! it's hard," she continued, "to have had to send our Pierre so far
away. As it is, I don't see my husband all day, and now I've a child whom
I never see at all. But the misfortune is that one has to live, and how
could I have kept the little fellow in that tiny shop of mine, where from
morning till night I never have a moment to spare! Yet, I can't help
crying at the thought that I wasn't able to keep and nurse him. When my
husband comes home from the museum every evening, we do nothing but talk
about him, like a pair of fools. And so, according to you, mademoiselle,
that place Rougemont is very healthy, and there are never any nasty
illnesses about there?"

But at this moment she was interrupted by the arrival of another early
visitor, whose advent she hailed with a cry of delight.

"Oh! how happy I am to see you, Madame Couteau! What a good idea it was
of mine to call here!"

Amid exclamations of joyous surprise, the nurse-agent explained that she
had arrived by the night train with a batch of nurses, and had started on
her round of visits as soon as she had deposited them in the Rue
Roquepine.

"After bidding Celeste good-day in passing," said she, "I intended to
call on you, my dear lady. But since you are here, we can settle our
accounts here, if you are agreeable."

Madame Menoux, however, was looking at her very anxiously. "And how is my
little Pierre?" she asked.

"Why, not so bad, not so bad. He is not, you know, one of the strongest;
one can't say that he's a big child. Only he's so pretty and nice-looking
with his rather pale face. And it's quite certain that if there are
bigger babies than he is, there are smaller ones too."

She spoke more slowly as she proceeded, and carefully sought words which
might render the mother anxious, without driving her to despair. These
were her usual tactics in order to disturb her customers' hearts, and
then extract as much money from them as possible. On this occasion she
must have guessed that she might carry things so far as to ascribe a
slight illness to the child.

"However, I must really tell you, because I don't know how to lie; and
besides, after all, it's my duty--Well, the poor little darling has been
ill, and he's not quite well again yet."

Madame Menoux turned very pale and clasped her puny little hands: "_Mon
Dieu_! he will die of it."

"No, no, since I tell you that he's already a little better. And
certainly he doesn't lack good care. You should just see how La Loiseau
coddles him! When children are well behaved they soon get themselves
loved. And the whole house is at his service, and no expense is spared
The doctor came twice, and there was even some medicine. And that costs
money."

The last words fell from La Couteau's lips with the weight of a club.
Then, without leaving the scared, trembling mother time to recover, the
nurse-agent continued: "Shall we go into our accounts, my dear lady?"

Madame Menoux, who had intended to make a payment before returning to her
shop, was delighted to have some money with her. They looked for a slip
of paper on which to set down the figures; first the month's nursing,
thirty francs; then the doctor, six francs; and indeed, with the
medicine, that would make ten francs.

"Ah! and besides, I meant to tell you," added La Couteau, "that so much
linen was dirtied during his illness that you really ought to add three
francs for the soap. That would only be just; and besides, there were
other little expenses, sugar, and eggs, so that in your place, to act
like a good mother, I should put down five francs. Forty-five francs
altogether, will that suit you?"

In spite of her emotion Madame Menoux felt that she was being robbed,
that the other was speculating on her distress. She made a gesture of
surprise and revolt at the idea of having to give so much money--that
money which she found so hard to earn. No end of cotton and needles had
to be sold to get such a sum together! And her distress, between the
necessity of economy on the one hand and her maternal anxiety on the
other, would have touched the hardest heart.

"But that will make another half-month's money," said she.

At this La Couteau put on her most frigid air: "Well, what would you
have? It isn't my fault. One can't let your child die, so one must incur
the necessary expenses. And then, if you haven't confidence in me, say
so; send the money and settle things direct. Indeed, that will greatly
relieve me, for in all this I lose my time and trouble; but then, I'm
always stupid enough to be too obliging."

When Madame Menoux, again quivering and anxious, had given way, another
difficulty arose. She had only some gold with her, two twenty-franc
pieces and one ten-franc piece. The three coins lay glittering on the
table. La Couteau looked at them with her yellow fixed eyes.

"Well, I can't give you your five francs change," she said, "I haven't
any change with me. And you, Celeste, have you any change for this lady?"

She risked asking this question, but put it in such a tone and with such
a glance that the other immediately understood her. "I have not a copper
in my pocket," she replied.

Deep silence fell. Then, with bleeding heart and a gesture of cruel
resignation, Madame Menoux did what was expected of her.

"Keep those five francs for yourself, Madame Couteau, since you have to
take so much trouble. And, _mon Dieu_! may all this money bring me good
luck, and at least enable my poor little fellow to grow up a fine
handsome man like his father."

"Oh! as for that I'll warrant it," cried the other, with enthusiasm.
"Those little ailments don't mean anything--on the contrary. I see plenty
of little folks, I do; and so just remember what I tell you, yours will
become an extraordinarily fine child. There won't be better."

When Madame Menoux went off, La Couteau had lavished such flattery and
such promises upon her that she felt quite light and gay; no longer
regretting her money, but dreaming of the day when little Pierre would
come back to her with plump cheeks and all the vigor of a young oak.

As soon as the door had closed behind the haberdasher, Celeste began to
laugh in her impudent way: "What a lot of fibs you told her! I don't
believe that her child so much as caught a cold," she exclaimed.

La Couteau began by assuming a dignified air: "Say that I'm a liar at
once. The child isn't well, I assure you."

The maid's gayety only increased at this. "Well now, you are really
comical, putting on such airs with me. I know you, remember, and I know
what is meant when the tip of your nose begins to wriggle."

"The child is quite puny," repeated her friend, more gently.

"Oh! I can believe that. All the same I should like to see the doctor's
prescriptions, and the soap and the sugar. But, you know, I don't care a
button about the matter. As for that little Madame Menoux, it's here
to-day and gone to-morrow. She has her business, and I have mine. And
you, too, have yours, and so much the better if you get as much out of it
as you can."

But La Couteau changed the conversation by asking the maid if she could
not give her a drop of something to drink, for night travelling did upset
her stomach so. Thereupon Celeste, with a laugh, took a bottle half-full
of malaga and a box of biscuits from the bottom of a cupboard. This was
her little secret store, stolen from the still-room. Then, as the other
expressed a fear that her mistress might surprise them, she made a
gesture of insolent contempt. Her mistress! Why, she had her nose in her
basins and perfumery pots, and wasn't at all likely to call till she had
fixed herself up so as to look pretty.

"There are only the children to fear," added Celeste; "that Gaston and
that Lucie, a couple of brats who are always after one because their
parents never trouble about them, but let them come and play here or in
the kitchen from morning till night. And I don't dare lock this door, for
fear they should come rapping and kicking at it."

When, by way of precaution, she had glanced down the passage and they had
both seated themselves at table, they warmed and spoke out their minds,
soon reaching a stage of easy impudence and saying everything as if quite
unconscious how abominable it was. While sipping her wine Celeste asked
for news of the village, and La Couteau spoke the brutal truth, between
two biscuits. It was at the Vimeux' house that the servant's last child,
born in La Rouche's den, had died a fortnight after arriving at
Rougemont, and the Vimeux, who were more or less her cousins, had sent
her their friendly remembrances and the news that they were about to
marry off their daughter. Then, at La Gavette's, the old grandfather, who
looked after the nurslings while the family was at work in the fields,
had fallen into the fire with a baby in his arms. Fortunately they had
been pulled out of it, and only the little one had been roasted. La
Cauchois, though at heart she wasn't downcast, now had some fears that
she might be worried, because four little ones had gone off from her
house all in a body, a window being forgetfully left open at night-time.
They were all four little Parisians, it seemed--two foundlings and two
that had come from Madame Bourdieu's. Since the beginning of the year as
many had died at Rougemont as had arrived there, and the mayor had
declared that far too many were dying, and that the village would end by
getting a bad reputation. One thing was certain, La Couillard would be
the very first to receive a visit from the gendarmes if she didn't so
arrange matters as to keep at least one nursling alive every now and
then.

"Ah? that Couillard!" added the nurse-agent. "Just fancy, my dear, I took
her a child, a perfect little angel--the boy of a very pretty young
person who was stopping at Madame Bourdieu's. She paid four hundred
francs to have him brought up until his first communion, and he lived
just five days! Really now, that wasn't long enough! La Couillard need
not have been so hasty. It put me in such a temper! I asked her if she
wanted to dishonor me. What will ruin me is my good heart. I don't know
how to refuse when folks ask me to do them a service. And God in Heaven
knows how fond I am of children! I've always lived among them, and in
future, if anybody who's a friend of mine gives me a child to put out to
nurse, I shall say: 'We won't take the little one to La Couillard, for it
would be tempting Providence. But after all, I'm an honest woman, and I
wash my hands of it, for if I do take the cherubs over yonder I don't
nurse them. And when one's conscience is at ease one can sleep quietly.'"

"Of course," chimed in Celeste, with an air of conviction.

While they thus waxed maudlin over their malaga, there arose a horrible
red vision--a vision of that terrible Rougemont, paved with little
Parisians, the filthy, bloody village, the charnel-place of cowardly
murder, whose steeple pointed so peacefully to the skies in the midst of
the far-spreading plain.

But all at once a rush was heard in the passage, and the servant hastened
to the door to rid herself of Gaston and Lucie, who were approaching. "Be
off! I don't want you here. Your mamma has told you that you mustn't come
here."

Then she came back into the room quite furious. "That's true!" said she;
"I can do nothing but they must come to bother me. Why don't they stay a
little with the nurse?"

"Oh! by the way," interrupted La Couteau, "did you hear that Marie
Lebleu's little one is dead? She must have had a letter about it. Such a
fine child it was! But what can one expect? it's a nasty wind passing.
And then you know the saying, 'A nurse's child is the child of
sacrifice!'"

"Yes, she told me she had heard of it," replied Celeste, "but she begged
me not to mention it to madame, as such things always have a bad effect.
The worst is that if her child's dead madame's little one isn't much
better off."

At this La Couteau pricked up her ears. "Ah! so things are not
satisfactory?"

"No, indeed. It isn't on account of her milk; that's good enough, and she
has plenty of it. Only you never saw such a creature--such a temper!
always brutal and insolent, banging the doors and talking of smashing
everything at the slightest word. And besides, she drinks like a pig--as
no woman ought to drink."

La Couteau's pale eyes sparkled with gayety, and she briskly nodded her
head as if to say that she knew all this and had been expecting it. In
that part of Normandy, in and around Rougemont, all the women drank more
or less, and the girls even carried little bottles of brandy to school
with them in their baskets. Marie Lebleu, however, was a woman of the
kind that one picks up under the table, and, indeed, it might be said
that since the birth of her last child she had never been quite sober.

"I know her, my dear," exclaimed La Couteau; "she is impossible. But
then, that doctor who chose her didn't ask my opinion. And, besides, it
isn't a matter that concerns me. I simply bring her to Paris and take her
child back to the country. I know nothing about anything else. Let the
gentlefolks get out of their trouble by themselves."

This sentiment tickled Celeste, who burst out laughing. "You haven't an
idea," said she, "of the infernal life that Marie leads here! She fights
people, she threw a water-bottle at the coachman, she broke a big vase in
madame's apartments, she makes them all tremble with constant dread that
something awful may happen. And, then, if you knew what tricks she plays
to get something to drink! For it was found out that she drank, and all
the liqueurs were put under lock and key. So you don't know what she
devised? Well, last week she drained a whole bottle of Eau de Melisse,
and was ill, quite ill, from it. Another time she was caught sipping some
Eau de Cologne from one of the bottles in madame's dressing-room. I now
really believe that she treats herself to some of the spirits of wine
that are given her for the warmer!--it's enough to make one die of
laughing. I'm always splitting my sides over it, in my little corner."

Then she laughed till the tears came into her eyes; and La Couteau, on
her side highly amused, began to wriggle with a savage delight. All at
once, however, she calmed down and exclaimed, "But, I say, they will turn
her out of doors?"

"Oh! that won't be long. They would have done so already if they had
dared."

But at this moment the ringing of a bell was heard, and an oath escaped
Celeste. "Good! there's madame ringing for me now! One can never be at
peace for a moment."

La Couteau, however, was already standing up, quite serious, intent on
business and ready to depart.

"Come, little one, don't be foolish, you must do your work. For my part I
have an idea. I'll run to fetch one of the nurses whom I brought this
morning, a girl I can answer for as for myself. In an hour's time I'll be
back here with her, and there will be a little present for you if you
help me to get her the situation."

She disappeared while the maid, before answering a second ring, leisurely
replaced the malaga and the biscuits at the bottom of the cupboard.

At ten o'clock that day Seguin was to take his wife and their friend
Santerre to Mantes, to lunch there, by way of trying an electric
motor-car, which he had just had built at considerable expense. He had
become fond of this new "sport," less from personal taste, however, than
from his desire to be one of the foremost in taking up a new fashion. And
a quarter of an hour before the time fixed for starting he was already in
his spacious "cabinet," arrayed in what he deemed an appropriate costume:
a jacket and breeches of greenish ribbed velvet, yellow shoes, and a
little leather hat. And he poked fun at Santerre when the latter
presented himself in town attire, a light gray suit of delicate effect.

Soon after Valentine had given birth to her daughter Andree, the novelist
had again become a constant frequenter of the house in the Avenue
d'Antin. He was intent on resuming the little intrigue that he had begun
there and felt confident of victory. Valentine, on her side, after a
period of terror followed by great relief, had set about making up for
lost time, throwing herself more wildly than ever into the vortex of
fashionable life. She had recovered her good looks and youthfulness, and
had never before experienced such a desire to divert herself, leaving her
children more and more to the care of servants, and going about, hither
and thither, as her fancy listed, particularly since her husband did the
same in his sudden fits of jealousy and brutality, which broke out every
now and again in the most imbecile fashion without the slightest cause.
It was the collapse of all family life, with the threat of a great
disaster in the future; and Santerre lived there in the midst of it,
helping on the work of destruction.

He gave a cry of rapture when Valentine at last made her appearance
gowned in a delicious travelling dress, with a cavalier toque on her
head. But she was not quite ready, for she darted off again, saying that
she would be at their service as soon as she had seen her little Andree,
and given her last orders to the nurse.

"Well, make haste," cried her husband. "You are quite unbearable, you are
never ready."

It was at this moment that Mathieu called, and Seguin received him in
order to express his regret that he could not that day go into business
matters with him. Nevertheless, before fixing another appointment, he was
willing to take note of certain conditions which the other wished to
stipulate for the purpose of reserving to himself the exclusive right of
purchasing the remainder of the Chantebled estate in portions and at
fixed dates. Seguin was promising that he would carefully study this
proposal when he was cut short by a sudden tumult--distant shouts, wild
hurrying to and fro, and a violent banging of doors.

"Why! what is it? what is it?" he muttered, turning towards the shaking
walls.

The door suddenly opened and Valentine reappeared, distracted, red with
fear and anger, and carrying her little Andree, who wailed and struggled
in her arms.

"There, there, my pet," gasped the mother, "don't cry, she shan't hurt
you any more. There, it's nothing, darling; be quiet, do."

Then she deposited the little girl in a large armchair, where she at once
became quiet again. She was a very pretty child, but still so puny,
although nearly four months old, that there seemed to be nothing but her
beautiful big eyes in her pale little face.

"Well, what is the matter?" asked Seguin, in astonishment.

"The matter, is, my friend, that I have just found Marie lying across the
cradle as drunk as a market porter, and half stifling the child. If I had
been a few moments later it would have been all over. Drunk at ten
o'clock in the morning! Can one understand such a thing? I had noticed
that she drank, and so I hid the liqueurs, for I hoped to be able to keep
her, since her milk is so good. But do you know what she had drunk? Why,
the methylated spirits for the warmer! The empty bottle had remained
beside her."

"But what did she say to you?"

"She simply wanted to beat me. When I shook her, she flew at me in a
drunken fury, shouting abominable words. And I had time only to escape
with the little one, while she began barricading herself in the room,
where she is now smashing the furniture! There! just listen!"

Indeed, a distant uproar of destruction reached them. They looked one at
the other, and deep silence fell, full of embarrassment and alarm.

"And then?" Seguin ended by asking in his curt dry voice.

"Well, what can I say? That woman is a brute beast, and I can't leave
Andree in her charge to be killed by her. I have brought the child here,
and I certainly shall not take her back. I will even own that I won't run
the risk of going back to the room. You will have to turn the girl out of
doors, after paying her wages."

"I! I!" cried Seguin. Then, walking up and down as if spurring on the
anger which was rising within him, he burst forth: "I've had enough, you
know, of all these idiotic stories! This house has become a perfect hell
upon earth all through that child! There will soon be nothing but
fighting here from morning till night. First of all it was pretended that
the nurse whom I took the trouble to choose wasn't healthy. Well, then a
second nurse is engaged, and she gets drunk and stifles the child. And
now, I suppose, we are to have a third, some other vile creature who will
prey on us and drive us mad. No, no, it's too exasperating, I won't have
it."

Valentine, her fears now calmed, became aggressive. "What won't you have?
There is no sense in what you say. As we have a child we must have a
nurse. If I had spoken of nursing the little one myself you would have
told me I was a fool. You would have found the house more uninhabitable
than ever, if you had seen me with the child always in my arms. But I
won't nurse--I can't. As you say, we will take a third nurse; it's simple
enough, and we'll do so at once and risk it."

Seguin had abruptly halted in front of Andree, who, alarmed by the sight
of his stern dark figure began to cry. Blinded as he was by anger, he
perhaps failed to see her, even as he failed to see Gaston and Lucie, who
had hastened in at the noise of the dispute and stood near the door, full
of curiosity and fear. As nobody thought of sending them away they
remained there, and saw and heard everything.

"The carriage is waiting," resumed Seguin, in a voice which he strove to
render calm. "Let us make haste, let us go."

Valentine looked at him in stupefaction. "Come, be reasonable," said she.
"How can I leave this child when I have nobody to whom I can trust her?"

"The carriage is waiting for us," he repeated, quivering; "let us go at
once."

And as his wife this time contented herself with shrugging her shoulders,
he was seized with one of those sudden fits of madness which impelled him
to the greatest violence, even when people were present, and made him
openly display his rankling poisonous sore, that absurd jealousy which
had upset his life. As for that poor little puny, wailing child, he would
have crushed her, for he held her to be guilty of everything, and indeed
it was she who was now the obstacle to that excursion he had planned,
that pleasure trip which he had promised himself, and which now seemed to
him of such supreme importance. And 'twas so much the better if friends
were there to hear him. So in the vilest language he began to upbraid his
wife, not only reproaching her for the birth of that child, but even
denying that the child was his. "You will only be content when you have
driven me from the house!" he finished in a fury. "You won't come? Well
then, I'll go by myself!"

And thereupon he rushed off like a whirlwind, without a word to Santerre,
who had remained silent, and without even remembering that Mathieu still
stood there awaiting an answer. The latter, in consternation at hearing
all these things, had not dared to withdraw lest by doing so he should
seem to be passing judgment on the scene. Standing there motionless, he
turned his head aside, looked at little Andree who was still crying, and
at Gaston and Lucie, who, silent with fright, pressed one against the
other behind the armchair in which their sister was wailing.

Valentine had sunk upon a chair, stifling with sobs, her limbs trembling.
"The wretch! Ah, how he treats me! To accuse me thus, when he knows how
false it is! Ah! never more; no, never more! I would rather kill myself;
yes, kill myself!"

Then Santerre, who had hitherto stood on one side, gently drew near to
her and ventured to take her hand with a gesture of affectionate
compassion, while saying in an undertone: "Come, calm yourself. You know
very well that you are not alone, that you are not forsaken. There are
some things which cannot touch you. Calm yourself, cease weeping, I beg
you. You distress me dreadfully."

He made himself the more gentle since the husband had been the more
brutal; and he leant over her yet the more closely, and again lowered his
voice till it became but a murmur. Only a few words could be heard: "It
is wrong of you to worry yourself like this. Forget all that folly. I
told you before that he doesn't know how to behave towards a woman."

Twice was that last remark repeated with a sort of mocking pity; and she
smiled vaguely amid her drying tears, in her turn murmuring: "You are
kind, you are. Thank you. And you are quite right. . . . Ah! if I could
only be a little happy!"

Then Mathieu distinctly saw her press Santerre's hand as if in acceptance
of his consolation. It was the logical, fatal outcome of the
situation--given a wife whom her husband had perverted, a mother who
refused to nurse her babe. And yet a cry from Andree suddenly set
Valentine erect, awaking to the reality of her position. If that poor
creature were so puny, dying for lack of her mother's milk, the mother
also was in danger from her refusal to nurse her and clasp her to her
breast like a buckler of invincible defence. Life and salvation one
through the other, or disaster for both, such was the law. And doubtless
Valentine became clearly conscious of her peril, for she hastened to take
up the child and cover her with caresses, as if to make of her a
protecting rampart against the supreme madness to which she had felt
prompted. And great was the distress that came over her. Her other
children were there, looking and listening, and Mathieu also was still
waiting. When she perceived him her tears gushed forth again, and she
strove to explain things, and even attempted to defend her husband.

"Excuse him, there are moments when he quite loses his head. _Mon Dieu_!
What will become of me with this child? Yet I can't nurse her now, it is
too late. It is frightful to be in such a position without knowing what
to do. Ah! what will become of me, good Lord?"

Santerre again attempted to console her, but she no longer listened to
him, and he was about to defer all further efforts till another time when
unexpected intervention helped on his designs.

Celeste, who had entered noiselessly, stood there waiting for her
mistress to allow her to speak. "It is my friend who has come to see me,
madame," said she; "you know, the person from my village, Sophie Couteau,
and as she happens to have a nurse with her--"

"There is a nurse here?"

"Oh! yes, madame, a very fine one, an excellent one."

Then, on perceiving her mistress's radiant surprise, her joy at this
relief, she showed herself zealous: "Madame must not tire herself by
holding the little one. Madame hasn't the habit. If madame will allow me,
I will bring the nurse to her."

Heaving a sigh of happy deliverance, Valentine had allowed the servant to
take the child from her. So Heaven had not abandoned her! However, she
began to discuss the matter, and was not inclined to have the nurse
brought there. She somehow feared that if the other one, who was drunk in
her room, should come out and meet the new arrival, she would set about
beating them all and breaking everything. At last she insisted on taking
Santerre and Mathieu into the linen-room, saying that the latter must
certainly have some knowledge of these matters, although he declared the
contrary. Only Gaston and Lucie were formally forbidden to follow.

"You are not wanted," said their mother, "so stay here and play. But we
others will all go, and as softly as possible, please, so that that
drunken creature may not suspect anything."

Once in the linen-room, Valentine ordered all the doors to be carefully
secured. La Couteau was standing there with a sturdy young person of
five-and-twenty, who carried a superb-looking infant in her arms. She had
dark hair, a low forehead, and a broad face, and was very respectably
dressed. And she made a little courtesy like a well-trained nurse, who
has already served with gentlefolks and knows how to behave. But
Valentine's embarrassment remained extreme; she looked at the nurse and
at the babe like an ignorant woman who, though her elder children had
been brought up in a room adjoining her own, had never troubled or
concerned herself about anything. In her despair, seeing that Santerre
kept to himself, she again appealed to Mathieu, who once more excused
himself. And it was only then that La Couteau, after glancing askance at
the gentleman who, somehow or other, always turned up whenever she had
business to transact, ventured to intervene:

"Will madame rely on me? If madame will kindly remember, I once before
ventured to offer her my services, and if she had accepted them she would
have saved herself no end of worry. That Marie Lebleu is impossible, and
I certainly could have warned madame of it at the time when I came to
fetch Marie's child. But since madame's doctor had chosen her, it was not
for me to speak. Oh! she has good milk, that's quite sure; only she also
has a good tongue, which is always dry. So if madame will now place
confidence in me--"

Then she rattled on interminably, expatiating on the respectability of
her calling, and praising the value of the goods she offered.

"Well, madame, I tell you that you can take La Catiche with your eyes
shut. She's exactly what you want, there's no better in Paris. Just look
how she's built, how sturdy and how healthy she is! And her child, just
look at it! She's married, she even has a little girl of four at the
village with her husband. She's a respectable woman, which is more than
can be said for a good many nurses. In a word, madame, I know her and can
answer for her. If you are not pleased with her I myself will give you
your money back."

In her haste to get it all over Valentine made a great gesture of
surrender. She even consented to pay one hundred francs a month, since La
Catiche was a married woman. Moreover, La Couteau explained that she
would not have to pay the office charges, which would mean a saving of
forty-five francs, though, perhaps, madame would not forget all the
trouble which she, La Couteau, had taken. On the other hand, there would,
of course, be the expense of taking La Catiche's child back to the
village, a matter of thirty francs. Valentine liberally promised to
double that sum; and all seemed to be settled, and she felt delivered,
when she suddenly bethought herself of the other nurse, who had
barricaded herself in her room. How could they get her out in order to
install La Catiche in her place?

"What!" exclaimed La Couteau, "does Marie Lebleu frighten you? She had
better not give me any of her nonsense if she wants me ever to find her
another situation. I'll speak to her, never fear."

Celeste thereupon placed Andree on a blanket, which was lying there, side
by side with the infant of which the new nurse had rid herself a moment
previously, and undertook to conduct La Couteau to Marie Lebleu's room.
Deathlike silence now reigned there, but the nurse-agent only had to give
her name to secure admittance. She went in, and for a few moments one
only heard her dry curt voice. Then, on coming out, she tranquillized
Valentine, who had gone to listen, trembling.

"I've sobered her, I can tell you," said she. "Pay her her month's wages.
She's packing her box and going off."

Then, as they went back into the linen-room, Valentine settled pecuniary
matters and added five francs for this new service. But a final
difficulty arose. La Couteau could not come back to fetch La Catiche's
child in the evening, and what was she to do with it during the rest of
the day? "Well, no matter," she said at last, "I'll take it; I'll deposit
it at the office, before I go my round. They'll give it a bottle there,
and it'll have to grow accustomed to the bottle now, won't it?"

"Of course," the mother quietly replied.

Then, as La Couteau, on the point of leaving, after all sorts of bows and
thanks, turned round to take the little one, she made a gesture of
hesitation on seeing the two children lying side by side on the blanket.

"The devil!" she murmured; "I mustn't make a mistake."

This seemed amusing, and enlivened the others. Celeste fairly exploded,
and even La Catiche grinned broadly; while La Couteau caught up the child
with her long claw-like hands and carried it away. Yet another gone, to
be carted away yonder in one of those ever-recurring _razzias_ which
consigned the little babes to massacre!

Mathieu alone had not laughed. He had suddenly recalled his conversation
with Boutan respecting the demoralizing effects of that nurse trade, the
shameful bargaining, the common crime of two mothers, who each risked the
death of her child--the idle mother who bought another's services, the
venal mother who sold her milk. He felt cold at heart as he saw one child
carried off still full of life, and the other remain there already so
puny. And what would be fate's course? Would not one or the other,
perhaps both of them be sacrificed?

Valentine, however, was already leading both him and Santerre to the
spacious salon again; and she was so delighted, so fully relieved, that
she had recovered all her cavalier carelessness, her passion for noise
and pleasure. And as Mathieu was about to take his leave, he heard the
triumphant Santerre saying to her, while for a moment he retained her
hand in his clasp: "Till to-morrow, then." And she, who had cast her
buckler of defence aside, made answer: "Yes--yes, to-morrow."

A week later La Catiche was the acknowledged queen of the house. Andree
had recovered a little color, and was increasing in weight daily. And in
presence of this result the others bowed low indeed. There was every
disposition to overlook all possible faults on the nurse's part. She was
the third, and a fourth would mean the child's death; so that she was an
indispensable, a providential helper, one whose services must be retained
at all costs. Moreover, she seemed to have no defects, for she was a
calm, cunning, peasant woman, one who knew how to rule her employers and
extract from them all that was to be extracted. Her conquest of the
Seguins was effected with extraordinary skill. At first some
unpleasantness seemed likely, because Celeste was, on her own side,
pursuing a similar course; but they were both too intelligent to do
otherwise than come to an understanding. As their departments were
distinct, they agreed that they could prosecute parallel invasions. And
from that moment they even helped one another, divided the empire, and
preyed upon the house in company.

La Catiche sat upon a throne, served by the other domestics, with her
employers at her feet. The finest dishes were for her; she had her
special wine, her special bread, she had everything most delicate and
most nourishing that could be found. Gluttonous, slothful, and proud, she
strutted about, bending one and all to her fancies. The others gave way
to her in everything to avoid sending her into a temper which might have
spoilt her milk. At her slightest indisposition everybody was distracted.
One night she had an attack of indigestion, and all the doctors in the
neighborhood were rung up to attend on her. Her only real defect,
perhaps, was a slight inclination for pilfering; she appropriated some
linen that was lying about, but madame would not hear of the matter being
mentioned.

There was also the chapter of the presents which were heaped on her in
order to keep her in good temper. Apart from the regulation present when
the child cut its first tooth, advantage was taken of various other
occasions, and a ring, a brooch, and a pair of earrings were given her.
Naturally she was the most adorned nurse in the Champs-Elysees, with
superb cloaks and the richest of caps, trimmed with long ribbons which
flared in the sunlight. Never did lady lead a life of more sumptuous
idleness. There were also the presents which she extracted for her
husband and her little girl at the village. Parcels were sent them by
express train every week. And on the morning when news came that her own
baby, carried back by La Couteau, had died from the effects of a bad
cold, she was presented with fifty francs as if in payment for the loss
of her child. Little Andree, meanwhile, grew ever stronger, and thus La
Catiche rose higher and higher, with the whole house bending low beneath
her tyrannical sway.

On the day when Mathieu called to sign the deed which was to insure him
the possession of the little pavilion of Chantebled with some fifty acres
around it, and the privilege of acquiring other parts of the estate on
certain conditions, he found Seguin on the point of starting for Le
Havre, where a friend, a wealthy Englishman, was waiting for him with his
yacht, in order that they might have a month's trip round the coast of
Spain.

"Yes," said Seguin feverishly, alluding to some recent heavy losses at
the gaming table, "I'm leaving Paris for a time--I have no luck here just
now. But I wish you plenty of courage and all success, my dear sir. You
know how much I am interested in the attempt you are about to make."

A little later that same day Mathieu was crossing the Champs-Elysees,
eager to join Marianne at Chantebled, moved as he was by the decisive
step he had taken, yet quivering also with faith and hope, when in a
deserted avenue he espied a cab waiting, and recognized Santerre inside
it. Then, as a veiled lady furtively sprang into the vehicle, he turned
round wondering: Was that not Valentine? And as the cab drove off he felt
convinced it was.

There came other meetings when he reached the main avenue; first Gaston
and Lucie, already tired of play, and dragging about their puny limbs
under the careless supervision of Celeste, who was busy laughing with a
grocer's man; while farther off La Catiche, superb and royal, decked out
like the idol of venal motherhood, was giving little Andree an outing,
with her long purple ribbons streaming victoriously in the sunshine.

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