Fruitfulness: Chapter 5

Chapter 5

V

MATHIEU rose noiselessly from his little folding iron bedstead beside the
large one of mahogany, on which Marianne lay alone. He looked at her, and
saw that she was awake and smiling.

"What! you are not asleep?" said he. "I hardly dared to stir for fear of
waking you. It is nearly nine o'clock, you know."

It was Sunday morning. January had come round, and they were in Paris.
During the first fortnight in December the weather had proved frightful
at Chantebled, icy rains being followed by snow and terrible cold. This
rigorous temperature, coupled with the circumstance that Marianne was
again expecting to become a mother, had finally induced Mathieu to accept
Beauchene's amiable offer to place at his disposal the little pavilion in
the Rue de la Federation, where the founder of the works had lived before
building the superb house on the quay. An old foreman who had occupied
this pavilion, which still contained the simple furniture of former days,
had lately died. And the young folks, desiring to be near their friend,
worthy Dr. Boutan, had lived there for a month now, and did not intend to
return to Chantebled until the first fine days in April.

"Wait a moment," resumed Mathieu; "I will let the light in."

He thereupon drew back one of the curtains, and a broad ray of yellow,
wintry sunshine illumined the dim room. "Ah! there's the sun! And it's
splendid weather--and Sunday too! I shall be able to take you out for a
little while with the children this afternoon."

Then Marianne called him to her, and, when he had seated himself on the
bed, took hold of his hand and said gayly: "Well, I hadn't been sleeping
either for the last twenty minutes; and I didn't move because I wanted
you to lie in bed a little late, as it's Sunday. How amusing to think
that we were afraid of waking one another when we both had our eyes wide
open!"

"Oh!" said he, "I was so happy to think you were sleeping. My one delight
on Sundays now is to remain in this room all the morning, and spend the
whole day with you and the children." Then he uttered a cry of surprise
and remorse: "Why! I haven't kissed you yet."

She had raised herself on her pillows, and he gave her an eager clasp. In
the stream of bright sunshine which gilded the bed she herself looked
radiant with health and strength and hope. Never had her heavy brown
tresses flowed down more abundantly, never had her big eyes smiled with
gayer courage. And sturdy and healthful as she was, with her face all
kindliness and love, she looked like the very personification of
Fruitfulness, the good goddess with dazzling skin and perfect flesh, of
sovereign dignity.

They remained for a moment clasped together in the golden sunshine which
enveloped them with radiance. Then Mathieu pulled up Marianne's pillows,
set the counterpane in order, and forbade her to stir until he had tidied
the room. Forthwith he stripped his little bedstead, folded up the
sheets, the mattress, and the bedstead itself, over which he slipped a
cover. She vainly begged him not to trouble, saying that Zoe, the servant
whom they had brought from the country, could very well do all those
things. But he persisted, replying that the servant plagued him, and that
he preferred to be alone to attend her and do all that there was to do.
Then, as he suddenly began to shiver, he remarked that the room was cold,
and blamed himself for not having already lighted the fire. Some logs and
some small wood were piled in a corner, near the chimney-piece.

"How stupid of me!" he exclaimed; "here am I leaving you to freeze."

Then he knelt down before the fireplace, while she protested: "What an
idea! Leave all that, and call Zoe."

"No, no, she doesn't know how to light the fire properly, and besides, it
amuses me."

He laughed triumphantly when a bright clear fire began to crackle,
filling the room with additional cheerfulness. The place was now a little
paradise, said he; but he had scarcely finished washing and dressing when
the partition behind the bed was shaken by a vigorous thumping.

"Ah! the rascals," he gayly exclaimed. "They are awake, you see! Oh!
well, we may let them come, since to-day is Sunday."

For a few moments there had been a noise as of an aviary in commotion in
the adjoining room. Prattling, shrill chirping, and ringing bursts of
laughter could be heard. Then came a noise as of pillows and bolsters
flying about, while two little fists continued pummelling the partition
as if it were a drum.

"Yes, yes," said the mother, smiling and anxious, "answer them; tell them
to come. They will be breaking everything if you don't."

Thereupon the father himself struck the wall, at which a victorious
outburst, cries of triumphal delight, arose on the other side. And
Mathieu scarcely had time to open the door before tramping and scuffling
could be heard in the passage. A triumphal entry followed. All four of
them wore long nightdresses falling to their little bare feet, and they
trotted along and laughed, with their brown hair streaming about, their
faces quite pink, and their eyes radiant with candid delight. Ambroise,
though he was younger than his brothers, marched first, for he was the
boldest and most enterprising. Behind him came the twins, Blaise and
Denis, who were less turbulent--the latter especially. He taught the
others to read, while Blaise, who was rather shy and timid, remained the
dreamer of them all. And each gave a hand to little Mademoiselle Rose,
who looked like an angel, pulled now to the right and now to the left
amid bursts of laughter, while she contrived to keep herself steadily
erect.

"Ah! mamma," cried Ambroise, "it's dreadfully cold, you know; do make me
a little room."

Forthwith he bounded into the bed, slipped under the coverlet, and
nestled close to his mother, so that only his laughing face and fine
curly hair could be seen. But at this the two others raised a shout of
war, and rushed forward in their turn upon the besieged citadel.

"Make a little room for us, mamma, make a little room! By your back,
mamma! Near your shoulder, mamma!"

Only little Rose remained on the floor, feeling quite vexed and
indignant. She had vainly attempted the assault, but had fallen back.
"And me, mamma, and me," she pleaded.

It was necessary to help her in her endeavors to hoist herself up with
her little hands. Then her mother took her in her arms in order that she
might have the best place of all. Mathieu had at first felt somewhat
anxious at seeing Marianne thus disturbed, but she laughed and told him
not to trouble. And then the picture they all presented as they nestled
there was so charming, so full of gayety, that he also smiled.

"It's very nice, it's so warm," said Ambroise, who was fond of taking his
ease.

But Denis, the reasonable member of the band, began to explain why it was
they had made so much noise "Blaise said that he had seen a spider. And
then he felt frightened."

This accusation of cowardice vexed his brother, who replied: "It isn't
true. I did see a spider, but I threw my pillow at it to kill it."

"So did I! so did I!" stammered Rose, again laughing wildly. "I threw my
pillow like that--houp! houp!"

They all roared and wriggled again, so amusing did it seem to them. The
truth was that they had engaged in a pillow fight under pretence of
killing a spider, which Blaise alone said that he had seen. This
unsupported testimony left the matter rather doubtful. But the whole
brood looked so healthful and fresh in the bright sunshine that their
father could not resist taking them in his arms, and kissing them here
and there, wherever his lips lighted, a final game which sent them into
perfect rapture amid a fresh explosion of laughter and shouts.

"Oh! what fun! what fun!"

"All the same," Marianne exclaimed, as she succeeded in freeing herself
somewhat from the embraces of the children, "all the same, you know, I
want to get up. I mustn't idle, for it does me no good. And besides, you
little ones need to be washed and dressed."

They dressed in front of the big blazing fire; and it was nearly ten
o'clock when they at last went down into the dining-room, where the
earthenware stove was roaring, while the warm breakfast milk steamed upon
the table. The ground floor of the pavilion comprised a dining-room and a
drawing-room on the right of the hall, and a kitchen and a study on the
left. The dining-room, like the principal bedchamber, overlooked the Rue
de la Federation, and was filled every morning with cheerfulness by the
rising sun.

The children were already at table, with their noses in their cups, when
a ring at the street door was heard. And it was Dr. Boutan who came in.
His arrival brought a renewal of noisy mirth, for the youngsters were
fond of his round, good-natured face. He had attended them all at their
births, and treated them like an old friend, with whom familiarity is
allowable. And so they were already thrusting back their chairs to dart
towards the doctor, when a remark from their mother restrained them.

"Now, please just leave the doctor quiet," said she, adding gayly, "Good
morning, doctor. I'm much obliged to you for this bright sunshine, for
I'm sure you ordered it so that I might go for a walk this afternoon."

"Why, yes, of course I ordered it--I was passing this way, and thought I
would look in to see how you were getting on."

Boutan took a chair and seated himself near the table, while Mathieu
explained to him that they had remained late in bed.

"Yes, that is all right, let her rest: but she must also take as much
exercise as possible. However, there is no cause to worry. I see that she
has a good appetite. When I find my patients at table, I cease to be a
doctor, you know, I am simply a friend making a call."

Then he put a few questions, which the children, who were busy
breakfasting, did not hear. And afterwards there came a pause in the
conversation, which the doctor himself resumed, following, no doubt, some
train of thought which he did not explain: "I hear that you are to lunch
with the Seguins next Thursday," said he. "Ah! poor little woman! That is
a terrible affair of hers."

With a gesture he expressed his feelings concerning the drama that had
just upset the Seguins' household. Valentine, like Marianne, was to
become a mother. For her part she was in despair at it, and her husband
had given way to jealous fury. For a time, amid all their quarrels, they
had continued leading their usual life of pleasure, but she now spent her
days on a couch, while he neglected her and reverted to a bachelor's
life. It was a very painful story, but the doctor was in hopes that
Marianne, on the occasion of her visit to the Seguins, might bring some
good influence to bear on them.

He rose from his chair and was about to retire, when the attack which had
all along threatened him burst forth. The children, unsuspectedly rising
from their chairs, had concerted together with a glance, and now they
opened their campaign. The worthy doctor all at once found the twins upon
his shoulders, while the younger boy clasped him round the waist and the
little girl clung to his legs.

"Puff! puff! do the railway train, do the railway train, please do."

They pushed and shook him, amid peal after peal of flute-like laughter,
while their father and mother rushed to his assistance, scolding and
angry. But he calmed the parents by saying: "Let them be! they are simply
wishing me good day. And besides, I must bear with them, you know, since,
as our friend Beauchene says, it is a little bit my fault if they are in
the world. What charms me with your children is that they enjoy such good
health, just like their mother. For the present, at all events, one can
ask nothing more of them."

When he had set them down on the floor, and given each a smacking kiss,
he took hold of Marianne's hands and said to her that everything was
going on beautifully, and that he was very pleased. Then he went off,
escorted to the front door by Mathieu, the pair of them jesting and
laughing gayly.

Directly after the midday meal Mathieu wished to go out, in order that
Marianne might profit by the bright sunshine. The children had been
dressed in readiness before sitting down to table, and it was scarcely
more than one o'clock when the family turned the corner of the Rue de la
Federation and found itself upon the quays.

This portion of Grenelle, lying between the Champ de Mars and the densely
populated streets of the centre of the district, has an aspect all its
own, characterized by vast bare expanses, and long and almost deserted
streets running at right angles and fringed by factories with lofty,
interminable gray walls. During work-hours nobody passes along these
streets, and on raising one's head one sees only lofty chimneys belching
forth thick coal smoke above the roofs of big buildings with dusty window
panes. And if any large cart entrance happens to be open one may espy
deep yards crowded with drays and full of acrid vapor. The only sounds
are the strident puffs of jets of steam, the dull rumbling of machinery,
and the sudden rattle of ironwork lowered from the carts to the pavement.
But on Sundays the factories do not work, and the district then falls
into death-like silence. In summer time there is but bright sunshine
heating the pavement, in winter some icy snow-laden wind rushing down the
lonely streets. The population of Grenelle is said to be the worst of
Paris, both the most vicious and the most wretched. The neighborhood of
the Ecole Militaire attracts thither a swarm of worthless women, who
bring in their train all the scum of the populace. In contrast to all
this the gay bourgeois district of Passy rises up across the Seine; while
the rich aristocratic quarters of the Invalides and the Faubourg St.
Germain spread out close by. Thus the Beauchene works on the quay, as
their owner laughingly said, turned their back upon misery and looked
towards all the prosperity and gayety of this world.

Mathieu was very partial to the avenues, planted with fine trees, which
radiate from the Champ de Mars and the Esplanade des Invalides, supplying
great gaps for air and sunlight. But he was particularly fond of that
long diversified Quai d'Orsay, which starts from the Rue du Bac in the
very centre of the city, passes before the Palais Bourbon, crosses first
the Esplanade des Invalides, and then the Champ de Mars, to end at the
Boulevard de Grenelle, in the black factory region. How majestically it
spread out, what fine old leafy trees there were round that bend of the
Seine from the State Tobacco Works to the garden of the Eiffel Tower! The
river winds along with sovereign gracefulness; the avenue stretches out
under superb foliage. You can really saunter there amid delicious
quietude, instinct as it were with all the charm and power of Paris.

It was thither that Mathieu wished to take his wife and the little ones
that Sunday. But the distance was considerable, and some anxiety was felt
respecting Rose's little legs. She was intrusted to Ambroise, who,
although the youngest of the boys, was already energetic and determined.
These two opened the march; then came Blaise and Denis, the twins, the
parents bringing up the rear. Everything at first went remarkably well:
they strolled on slowly in the gay sunshine. That beautiful winter
afternoon was exquisitely pure and clear, and though it was very cold in
the shade, all seemed golden and velvety in the stretches of bright
light. There were a great many people out of doors--all the idle folks,
clad in their Sunday best, whom the faintest sunshine draws in crowds to
the promenades of Paris. Little Rose, feeling warm and gay, drew herself
up as if to show the people that she was a big girl. She crossed the
whole extent of the Champ de Mars without asking to be carried. And her
three brothers strode along making the frozen pavement resound beneath
their steps. Promenaders were ever turning round to watch them. In other
cities of Europe the sight of a young married couple preceded by four
children would have excited no comment, but here in Paris the spectacle
was so unusual that remarks of astonishment, sarcasm, and even compassion
were exchanged. Mathieu and Marianne divined, even if they did not
actually hear, these comments, but they cared nothing for them. They
bravely went their way, smiling at one another, and feeling convinced
that the course they had taken in life was the right one, whatever other
folks might think or say.

It was three o'clock when they turned their steps homeward; and Marianne,
feeling rather tired, then took a little rest on a sofa in the
drawing-room, where Zoe had previously lighted a good fire. The children,
quieted by fatigue, were sitting round a little table, listening to a
tale which Denis read from a story-book, when a visitor was announced.
This proved to be Constance, who, after driving out with Maurice, had
thought of calling to inquire after Marianne, whom she saw only once or
twice a week, although the little pavilion was merely separated by a
garden from the large house on the quay.

"Oh! are you poorly, my dear?" she inquired as she entered the room and
perceived Marianne on the sofa.

"Oh! dear, no," replied the other, "but I have been out walking for the
last two hours and am now taking some rest."

Mathieu had brought an armchair forward for his wife's rich, vain cousin,
who, whatever her real feelings, certainly strove to appear amiable. She
apologized for not being able to call more frequently, and explained what
a number of duties she had to discharge as mistress of her home. Meantime
Maurice, clad in black velvet, hung round her petticoats, gazing from a
distance at the other children, who one and all returned his scrutiny.

"Well, Maurice," exclaimed his mother, "don't you wish your little
cousins good-day?"

He had to do as he was bidden and step towards them. But all five
remained embarrassed. They seldom met, and had as yet had no opportunity
to quarrel. The four little savages of Chantebled felt indeed almost out
of their element in the presence of this young Parisian with bourgeois
manners.

"And are all your little folks quite well?" resumed Constance, who, with
her sharp eyes, was comparing her son with the other lads. "Ambroise has
grown; his elder brothers also look very strong."

Her examination did not apparently result to Maurice's advantage. The
latter was tall and looked sturdy, but he had quite a waxen complexion.
Nevertheless, the glance that Constance gave the others was full of
irony, disdain, and condemnation. When she had first heard that Marianne
was likely to become a mother once more she had made no secret of her
disapproval. She held to her old opinions more vigorously than ever.

Marianne, knowing full well that they would fall out if they discussed
the subject of children, sought another topic of conversation. She
inquired after Beauchene. "And Alexandre," said she, "why did you not
bring him with you? I haven't seen him for a week!"

"Why," broke in Mathieu, "I told you he had gone shooting yesterday
evening. He slept, no doubt, at Puymoreau, the other side of Chantebled,
so as to be in the woods at daybreak this morning, and he probably won't
be home till to-morrow."

"Ah! yes, I remember now. Well, it's nice weather to be in the woods."

This, however, was another perilous subject, and Marianne regretted
having broached it, for, truth to tell, one never knew where Beauchene
might really be when he claimed to have gone shooting. He availed himself
so often of this pretext to absent himself from home that Constance was
doubtless aware of the truth. But in the presence of that household,
whose union was so perfect, she was determined to show a brave front.

"Well, you know," said she, "it is I who compel him to go about and take
as much exercise as possible. He has a temperament that needs the open
air. Shooting is very good for him."

At this same moment there came another ring at the door, announcing
another visitor. And this time it was Madame Morange who entered the
room, with her daughter Reine. She colored when she caught sight of
Madame Beauchene, so keenly was she impressed by that perfect model of
wealth and distinction, whom she ever strove to imitate. Constance,
however, profited by the diversion of Valerie's arrival to declare that
she unfortunately could not remain any longer, as a friend must now be
waiting for her at home.

"Well, at all events, leave us Maurice," suggested Mathieu. "Here's Reine
here now, and all six children can play a little while together. I will
bring you the boy by and by, when he has had a little snack."

But Maurice had already once more sought refuge among his mother's
skirts. And she refused the invitation. "Oh! no, no!" said she. "He has
to keep to a certain diet, you know, and he must not eat anything away
from home. Good-by; I must be off. I called only to inquire after you all
in passing. Keep well; good-by."

Then she led her boy away, never speaking to Valerie, but simply shaking
hands with her in a familiar, protecting fashion, which the other
considered to be extremely distinguished. Reine, on her side, had smiled
at Maurice, whom she already slightly knew. She looked delightful that
day in her gown of thick blue cloth, her face smiling under her heavy
black tresses, and showing such a likeness to her mother that she seemed
to be the latter's younger sister.

Marianne, quite charmed, called the girl to her: "Come and kiss me, my
dear! Oh! what a pretty young lady! Why, she is getting quite beautiful
and tall. How old is she?"

"Nearly thirteen," Valerie replied.

She had seated herself in the armchair vacated by Constance, and Mathieu
noticed what a keen expression of anxiety there was in her soft eyes.
After mentioning that she also had called in passing to make inquiries,
and declaring that both mother and children looked remarkably well, she
relapsed into gloomy silence, scarcely listening to Marianne, who thanked
her for having come. Thereupon it occurred to Mathieu to leave her with
his wife. To him it seemed that she must have something on her mind, and
perhaps she wished to make a confidante of Marianne.

"My dear Reine," said he, "come with these little ones into the
dining-room. We will see what afternoon snack there is, and lay the
cloth."

This proposal was greeted with shouts of delight, and all the children
trooped into the dining-room with Mathieu. A quarter of an hour later,
when everything was ready there, and Valerie came in, the latter's eyes
looked very red, as if she had been weeping. And that evening, when
Mathieu was alone with his wife, he learnt what the trouble was.
Morange's scheme of leaving the Beauchene works and entering the service
of the Credit National, where he would speedily rise to a high and
lucrative position, his hope too of giving Reine a big dowry and marrying
her off to advantage--all the ambitious dreams of rank and wealth in
which his wife and he had indulged, now showed no likelihood of
fulfilment, since it seemed probable that Valerie might again have a
child. Both she and her husband were in despair over it, and though
Marianne had done her utmost to pacify her friend and reconcile her to
circumstances, there were reasons to fear that in her distracted
condition she might do something desperate.

Four days later, when the Froments lunched with the Seguins du Hordel at
the luxurious mansion in the Avenue d'Antin, they came upon similar
trouble there. Seguin, who was positively enraged, did not scruple to
accuse his wife of infidelity, and, on his side, he took to quite a
bachelor life. He had been a gambler in his younger days, and had never
fully cured himself of that passion, which now broke out afresh, like a
fire which has only slumbered for a time. He spent night after night at
his club, playing at baccarat, and could be met in the betting ring at
every race meeting. Then, too, he glided into equivocal society and
appeared at home only at intervals to vent his irritation and spite and
jealousy upon his ailing wife.

She, poor woman, was absolutely guiltless of the charges preferred

against her. But knowing her husband, and unwilling for her own part to
give up her life of pleasure, she had practised concealment as long as
possible. And now she was really very ill, haunted too by an unreasoning,
irremovable fear that it would all end in her death. Mathieu, who had
seen her but a few months previously looking so fair and fresh, was
amazed to find her such a wreck. And on her side Valentine gazed, all
astonishment, at Marianne, noticing with surprise how calm and strong the
young woman seemed, and how limpid her clear and smiling eyes remained.

On the day of the Froments' visit Seguin had gone out early in the
morning, and when they arrived he had not yet returned. Thus the lunch
was for a short time kept waiting, and during the interval Celeste, the
maid, entered the room where the visitors sat near her mistress, who was
stretched upon a sofa, looking a perfect picture of distress. Valentine
turned a questioning glance on the servant, who forthwith replied:

"No, madame, Monsieur has not come back yet. But that woman of my village
is here. You know, madame, the woman I spoke to you about, Sophie
Couteau, La Couteau as we call her at Rougemont, who brings nurses to
Paris?"

"Well, what of it?" exclaimed Valentine, on the point of ordering Celeste
to leave the room, for it seemed to her quite outrageous to be disturbed
in this manner.

"Well, madame, she's here; and as I told you before, if you would intrust
her with the matter now she would find a very good wet nurse for you in
the country, and bring her here whenever she's wanted."

La Couteau had been standing behind the door, which had remained ajar,
and scarcely had Celeste finished than, without waiting for an
invitation, she boldly entered the room. She was a quick little wizened
woman, with certain peasant ways, but considerably polished by her
frequent journeys to Paris. So far as her small keen eyes and pointed
nose went her long face was not unpleasant, but its expression of good
nature was marred by her hard mouth, her thin lips, suggestive of
artfulness and cupidity. Her gown of dark woollen stuff, her black cape,
black mittens, and black cap with yellow ribbons, gave her the appearance
of a respectable countrywoman going to mass in her Sunday best.

"Have you been a nurse?" Valentine inquired, as she scrutinized her.

"Yes, madame," replied La Couteau, "but that was ten years ago, when I
was only twenty. It seemed to me that I wasn't likely to make much money
by remaining a nurse, and so I preferred to set up as an agent to bring
others to Paris."

As she spoke she smiled, like an intelligent woman who feels that those
who give their services as wet nurses to bourgeois families are simply
fools and dupes. However, she feared that she might have said too much on
the point, and so she added: "But one does what one can, eh, madame? The
doctor told me that I should never do for a nurse again, and so I thought
that I might perhaps help the poor little dears in another manner."

"And you bring wet nurses to the Paris offices?"

"Yes, madame, twice a month. I supply several offices, but more
particularly Madame Broquette's office in the Rue Roquepine. It's a very
respectable place, where one runs no risk of being deceived--And so, if
you like, madame, I will choose the very best I can find for you--the
pick of the bunch, so to say. I know the business thoroughly, and you can
rely on me."

As her mistress did not immediately reply, Celeste ventured to intervene,
and began by explaining how it happened that La Couteau had called that
day.

"When she goes back into the country, madame, she almost always takes a
baby with her, sometimes a nurse's child, and sometimes the child of
people who are not well enough off to keep a nurse in the house. And she
takes these children to some of the rearers in the country. She just now
came to see me before going round to my friend Madame Menoux, whose baby
she is to take away with her."

Valentine became interested. This Madame Menoux was a haberdasher in the
neighborhood and a great friend of Celeste's. She had married a former
soldier, a tall handsome fellow, who now earned a hundred and fifty
francs a month as an attendant at a museum. She was very fond of him, and
had bravely set up a little shop, the profits from which doubled their
income, in such wise that they lived very happily and almost at their
ease. Celeste, who frequently absented herself from her duties to spend
hours gossiping in Madame Menoux's little shop, was forever being scolded
for this practice; but in the present instance Valentine, full of anxiety
and curiosity, did not chide her. The maid was quite proud at being
questioned, and informed her mistress that Madame Menoux's baby was a
fine little boy, and that the mother had been attended by a certain
Madame Rouche, who lived at the lower end of the Rue du Rocher.

"It was I who recommended her," continued the servant, "for a friend of
mine whom she had attended had spoken to me very highly of her. No doubt
she has not such a good position as Madame Bourdieu, who has so handsome
a place in the Rue de Miromesnil, but she is less expensive, and so very
kind and obliging."

Then Celeste suddenly ceased speaking, for she noticed that Mathieu's
eyes were fixed upon her, and this, for reasons best known to herself,
made her feel uncomfortable. He on his side certainly placed no
confidence in this big dark girl with a head like that of a horse, who,
it seemed to him, knew far too much.

Marianne joined in the conversation. "But why," asked she, "why does not
this Madame Menoux, whom you speak about, keep her baby with her?"

Thereupon La Couteau turned a dark harsh glance upon this lady visitor,
who, whatever course she might take herself, had certainly no right to
prevent others from doing business.

"Oh! it's impossible," exclaimed Celeste, well pleased with the
diversion. "Madame Menoux's shop is no bigger than my pocket-
handkerchief, and at the back of it there is only one little room where
she and her husband take their meals and sleep. And that room, too,
overlooks a tiny courtyard where one can neither see nor breathe. The
baby would not live a week in such a place. And, besides, Madame Menoux
would not have time to attend to the child. She has never had a servant,
and what with waiting on customers and having to cook meals in time for
her husband's return from the museum, she never has a moment to spare.
Oh! if she could, she would be very happy to keep the little fellow with
her."

"It is true," said Marianne sadly; "there are some poor mothers whom I
pity with all my heart. This person you speak of is not in poverty, and
yet is reduced to this cruel separation. For my part, I should not be
able to exist if a child of mine were taken away from me to some unknown
spot and given to another woman."

La Couteau doubtless interpreted this as an attack upon herself. Assuming
the kindly demeanor of one who dotes on children, the air which she
always put on to prevail over hesitating mothers, she replied: "Oh,
Rougemont is such a very pretty place. And then it's not far from Bayeux,
so that folks are by no means savages there. The air is so pure, too,
that people come there to recruit their health. And, besides, the little
ones who are confided to us are well cared for, I assure you. One would
have to be heartless to do otherwise than love such little angels."

However, like Celeste, she relapsed into silence on seeing how
significantly Mathieu was looking at her. Perhaps, in spite of her rustic
ways, she understood that there was a false ring in her voice. Besides,
of what use was her usual patter about the salubrity of the region, since
that lady, Madame Seguin, wished to have a nurse at her house? So she
resumed: "Then it's understood, madame, I will bring you the best we
have, a real treasure."

Valentine, now a little tranquillized as to her fears for herself, found
strength to speak out. "No, no, I won't pledge myself in advance. I will
send to see the nurses you bring to the office, and we shall see if there
is one to suit me."

Then, without occupying herself further about the woman, she turned to
Marianne, and asked: "Shall you nurse your baby yourself?"

"Certainly, as I did with the others. We have very decided opinions on
that point, my husband and I."

"No doubt. I understand you: I should much like to do the same myself;
but it is impossible."

La Couteau had remained there motionless, vexed at having come on a
fruitless errand, and regretting the loss of the present which she would
have earned by her obligingness in providing a nurse. She put all her
spite into a glance which she shot at Marianne, who, thought she, was
evidently some poor creature unable even to afford a nurse. However, at a
sign which Celeste made her, she courtesied humbly and withdrew in the
company of the maid.

A few minutes afterwards, Seguin arrived, and, repairing to the
dining-room, they all sat down to lunch there. It was a very luxurious
meal, comprising eggs, red mullet, game, and crawfish, with red and white
Bordeaux wines and iced champagne. Such diet for Valentine and Marianne
would never have met with Dr. Boutan's approval; but Seguin declared the
doctor to be an unbearable individual whom nobody could ever please.

He, Seguin, while showing all politeness to his guests, seemed that day
to be in an execrable temper. Again and again he levelled annoying and
even galling remarks at his wife, carrying things to such a point at
times that tears came to the unfortunate woman's eyes. Now that he
scarcely set foot in the house he complained that everything was going
wrong there. If he spent his time elsewhere it was, according to him,
entirely his wife's fault. The place was becoming a perfect hell upon
earth. And in everything, the slightest incident, the most common-place
remark, he found an opportunity for jeers and gibes. These made Mathieu
and Marianne extremely uncomfortable; but at last he let fall such a
harsh expression that Valentine indignantly rebelled, and he had to
apologize. At heart he feared her, especially when the blood of the
Vaugelades arose within her, and she gave him to understand, in her
haughty disdainful way, that she would some day revenge herself on him
for his treatment.

However, seeking another outlet for his spite and rancor, he at last
turned to Mathieu, and spoke of Chantebled, saying bitterly that the game
in the covers there was fast becoming scarcer and scarcer, in such wise
that he now had difficulty in selling his shooting shares, so that his
income from the property was dwindling every year. He made no secret of
the fact that he would much like to sell the estate, but where could he
possibly find a purchaser for those unproductive woods, those sterile
plains, those marshes and those tracts of gravel?

Mathieu listened to all this attentively, for during his long walks in
the summer he had begun to take an interest in the estate. "Are you
really of opinion that it cannot be cultivated?" he asked. "It's pitiful
to see all that land lying waste and idle."

"Cultivate it!" cried Seguin. "Ah! I should like to see such a miracle!
The only crops that one will ever raise on it are stones and frogs."

They had by this time eaten their dessert, and before rising from table
Marianne was telling Valentine that she would much like to see and kiss
her children, who had not been allowed to lunch with their elders on
account of their supposed unruly ways, when a couple of visitors arrived
in turn, and everything else was forgotten. One was Santerre the
novelist, who of late had seldom called on the Seguins, and the other,
much to Mathieu's dislike, proved to be Beauchene's sister, Seraphine,
the Baroness de Lowicz. She looked at the young man in a bold, provoking,
significant manner, and then, like Santerre, cast a sly glance of mocking
contempt at Marianne and Valentine. She and the novelist between them
soon turned the conversation on to subjects that appealed to their
vicious tastes. And Santerre related that he had lately seen Doctor Gaude
perform several operations at the Marbeuf Hospital. He had found there
the usual set of society men who attend first performances at the
theatres, and indeed there were also some women present.

And then he enlarged upon the subject, giving the crudest and most
precise particulars, much to the delight of Seguin, who every now and
again interpolated remarks of approval, while both Mathieu and Marianne
grew more and more ill at ease. The young woman sat looking with
amazement at Santerre as he calmly recapitulated horror after horror, to
the evident enjoyment of the others. She remembered having read his last
book, that love story which had seemed to her so supremely absurd, with
its theories of the annihilation of the human species. And she at last
glanced at Mathieu to tell him how weary she felt of all the semi-society
and semi-medical chatter around her, and how much she would like to go
off home, leaning on his arm, and walking slowly along the sunlit quays.
He, for his part, felt a pang at seeing so much insanity rife amid those
wealthy surroundings. He made his wife a sign that it was indeed time to
take leave.

"What! are you going already!" Valentine then exclaimed. "Well, I dare
not detain you if you feel tired." However, when Marianne begged her to
kiss the children for her, she added: "Why, yes, it's true you have not
seen them. Wait a moment, pray; I want you to kiss them yourself."

But when Celeste appeared in answer to the bell, she announced that
Monsieur Gaston and Mademoiselle Lucie had gone out with their governess.
And this made Seguin explode once more. All his rancor against his wife
revived. The house was going to rack and ruin. She spent her days lying
on a sofa. Since when had the governess taken leave to go out with the
children without saying anything? One could not even see the children now
in order to kiss them. It was a nice state of things. They were left to
the servants; in fact, it was the servants now who controlled the house.

Thereupon Valentine began to cry.

"_Mon Dieu_!" said Marianne to her husband, when she found herself out of
doors, able to breathe, and happy once more now that she was leaning on
his arm; "why, they are quite mad, the people in that house."

"Yes," Mathieu responded, "they are mad, no doubt; but we must pity them,
for they know not what happiness is."

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