Fruitfulness: Chapter 9

Chapter 9

IX

ONE Thursday morning Mathieu went to lunch with Dr. Boutan in the rooms
where the latter had resided for more than ten years, in the Rue de
l'Universite, behind the Palais-Bourbon. By a contradiction, at which he
himself often laughed, this impassioned apostle of fruitfulness had
remained a bachelor. His extensive practice kept him in a perpetual
hurry, and he had little time free beyond his dejeuner hour. Accordingly,
whenever a friend wished to have any serious conversation with him, he
preferred to invite him to his modest table, to partake more or less
hastily of an egg, a cutlet, and a cup of coffee.

Mathieu wished to ask the doctor's advice on a grave subject. After a
couple of weeks' reflection, his idea of experimenting in agriculture, of
extricating that unappreciated estate of Chantebled from chaos,
preoccupied him to such a degree that he positively suffered at not
daring to come to a decision. The imperious desire to create, to produce
life, health, strength, and wealth grew within him day by day. Yet what
fine courage and what a fund of hope he needed to venture upon an
enterprise which outwardly seemed so wild and rash, and the wisdom of
which was apparent to himself alone. With whom could he discuss such a
matter, to whom could he confide his doubts and hesitation? When the idea
of consulting Boutan occurred to him, he at once asked the doctor for an
appointment. Here was such a confidant as he desired, a man of broad,
brave mind, one who worshipped life, who was endowed with far-seeing
intelligence, and who would therefore at once look beyond the first
difficulties of execution.

As soon as they were face to face on either side of the table, Mathieu
began to pour forth his confession, recounting his dream--his poem, as he
called it. And the doctor listened without interrupting, evidently won
over by the young man's growing, creative emotion. When at last Boutan
had to express an opinion he replied: "_Mon Dieu_, my friend, I can tell
you nothing from a practical point of view, for I have never even planted
a lettuce. I will even add that your project seems to me so hazardous
that any one versed in these matters whom you might consult would
assuredly bring forward substantial and convincing arguments to dissuade
you. But you speak of this affair with such superb confidence and ardor
and affection, that I feel convinced you would succeed. Moreover, you
flatter my own views, for I have long endeavored to show that, if
numerous families are ever to flourish again in France, people must again
love and worship the soil, and desert the towns, and lead a fruitful
fortifying country life. So how can I disapprove your plans? Moreover, I
suspect that, like all people who ask advice, you simply came here in the
hope that you would find in me a brother ready, in principle at all
events, to wage the same battle."

At this they both laughed heartily. Then, on Boutan inquiring with what
capital he would start operations, Mathieu quietly explained that he did
not mean to borrow money and thus run into debt; he would begin, if
necessary, with very few acres indeed, convinced as he was of the
conquering power of labor. His would be the head, and he would assuredly
find the necessary arms. His only worry was whether he would be able to
induce Seguin to sell him the old hunting-box and the few acres round it
on a system of yearly payments, without preliminary disbursement. When he
spoke to the doctor on this subject, the other replied:

"Oh! I think he is very favorably disposed. I know that he would be
delighted to sell that huge, unprofitable estate, for with his increasing
pecuniary wants he is very much embarrassed by it. You are aware, no
doubt, that things are going from bad to worse in his household."

Then the doctor broke off to inquire: "And our friend Beauchene, have you
warned him of your intention to leave the works?"

"Why, no, not yet," said Mathieu; "and I would ask you to keep the matter
private, for I wish to have everything settled before informing him."

Lunching quickly, they had now got to their coffee, and the doctor
offered to drive Mathieu back to the works, as he was going there
himself, for Madame Beauchene had requested him to call once a week, in
order that he might keep an eye on Maurice's health. Not only did the lad
still suffer from his legs, but he had so weak and delicate a stomach
that he had to be dieted severely.

"It's the kind of stomach one finds among children who have not been
brought up by their own mothers," continued Boutan. "Your plucky wife
doesn't know that trouble; she can let her children eat whatever they
fancy. But with that poor little Maurice, the merest trifle, such as four
cherries instead of three, provokes indigestion. Well, so it is settled,
I will drive you back to the works. Only I must first make a call in the
Rue Roquepine to choose a nurse. It won't take me long, I hope. Quick!
let us be off."

When they were together in the brougham, Boutan told Mathieu that it was
precisely for the Seguins that he was going to the nurse-agency. There
was a terrible time at the house in the Avenue d'Antin. A few months
previously Valentine had given birth to a daughter, and her husband had
obstinately resolved to select a fit nurse for the child himself,
pretending that he knew all about such matters. And he had chosen a big,
sturdy young woman of monumental appearance. Nevertheless, for two months
past Andree, the baby, had been pining away, and the doctor had
discovered, by analyzing the nurse's milk, that it was deficient in
nutriment. Thus the child was simply perishing of starvation. To change a
nurse is a terrible thing, and the Seguins' house was in a tempestuous
state. The husband rushed hither and thither, banging the doors and
declaring that he would never more occupy himself about anything.

"And so," added Boutan, "I have now been instructed to choose a fresh
nurse. And it is a pressing matter, for I am really feeling anxious about
that poor little Andree."

"But why did not the mother nurse her child?" asked Mathieu.

The doctor made a gesture of despair. "Ah! my dear fellow, you ask me too
much. But how would you have a Parisienne of the wealthy bourgeoisie
undertake the duty, the long brave task of nursing a child, when she
leads the life she does, what with receptions and dinners and soirees,
and absences and social obligations of all sorts? That little Madame
Seguin is simply trifling when she puts on an air of deep distress and
says that she would so much have liked to nurse her infant, but that it
was impossible since she had no milk. She never even tried! When her
first child was born she could doubtless have nursed it. But to-day, with
the imbecile, spoilt life she leads, it is quite certain that she is
incapable of making such an effort. The worst is, my dear fellow, as any
doctor will tell you, that after three or four generations of mothers who
do not feed their children there comes a generation that cannot do so.
And so, my friend, we are fast coming, not only in France, but in other
countries where the odious wet-nurse system is in vogue, to a race of
wretched, degenerate women, who will be absolutely powerless to nourish
their offspring."

Mathieu then remembered what he had witnessed at Madame Bourdieu's and
the Foundling Hospital. And he imparted his impressions to Boutan, who
again made a despairing gesture. There was a great work of social
salvation to be accomplished, said he. No doubt a number of
philanthropists were trying their best to improve things, but private
effort could not cope with such widespread need. There must be general
measures; laws must be passed to save the nation. The mother must be
protected and helped, even in secrecy, if she asked for it; she must be
cared for, succored, from the earliest period, and right through all the
long months during which she fed her babe. All sorts of establishments
would have to be founded--refuges, convalescent homes, and so forth; and
there must be protective enactments, and large sums of money voted to
enable help to be extended to all mothers, whatever they might be. It was
only by such preventive steps that one could put a stop to the frightful
hecatomb of newly-born infants, that incessant loss of life which
exhausted the nation and brought it nearer and nearer to death every day.

"And," continued the doctor, "it may all be summed up in this verity: 'It
is a mother's duty to nurse her child.' And, besides, a mother, is she
not the symbol of all grandeur, all strength, all beauty? She represents
the eternity of life. She deserves a social culture, she should be
religiously venerated. When we know how to worship motherhood, our
country will be saved. And this is why, my friend, I should like a mother
feeding her babe to be adopted as the highest expression of human beauty.
Ah! how can one persuade our Parisiennes, all our French women, indeed,
that woman's beauty lies in being a mother with an infant on her knees?
Whenever that fashion prevails, we shall be the sovereign nation, the
masters of the world!"

He ended by laughing in a distressed way, in his despair at being unable
to change manners and customs, aware as he was that the nation could be
revolutionized only by a change in its ideal of true beauty.

"To sum up, then, I believe in a child being nursed only by its own
mother. Every mother who neglects that duty when she can perform it is a
criminal. Of course, there are instances when she is physically incapable
of accomplishing her duty, and in that case there is the feeding-bottle,
which, if employed with care and extreme cleanliness, only sterilized
milk being used, will yield a sufficiently good result. But to send a
child away to be nursed means almost certain death; and as for the nurse
in the house, that is a shameful transaction, a source of incalculable
evil, for both the employer's child and the nurse's child frequently die
from it."

Just then the doctor's brougham drew up outside the nurse-agency in the
Rue Roquepine.

"I dare say you have never been in such a place, although you are the
father of five children," said Boutan to Mathieu, gayly.

"No, I haven't."

"Well, then, come with me. One ought to know everything."

The office in the Rue Roquepine was the most important and the one with
the best reputation in the district. It was kept by Madame Broquette, a
woman of forty, with a dignified if somewhat blotched face, who was
always very tightly laced in a faded silk gown of dead-leaf hue. But if
she represented the dignity and fair fame of the establishment in its
intercourse with clients, the soul of the place, the ever-busy
manipulator, was her husband, Monsieur Broquette, a little man with a
pointed nose, quick eyes, and the agility of a ferret. Charged with the
police duties of the office, the supervision and training of the nurses,
he received them, made them clean themselves, taught them to smile and
put on pleasant ways, besides penning them in their various rooms and
preventing them from eating too much. From morn till night he was ever
prowling about, scolding and terrorizing those dirty, ill-behaved, and
often lying and thieving women. The building, a dilapidated private
house, with a damp ground floor, to which alone clients were admitted,
had two upper stories, each comprising six rooms arranged as dormitories,
in which the nurses and their infants slept. There was no end to the
arrivals and departures there: the peasant women were ever galloping
through the place, dragging trunks about, carrying babes in swaddling
clothes, and filling the rooms and the passages with wild cries and vile
odors. And amid all this the house had another inmate, Mademoiselle
Broquette, Herminie as she was called, a long, pale, bloodless girl of
fifteen, who mooned about languidly among that swarm of sturdy young
women.

Boutan, who knew the house well, went in, followed by Mathieu. The
central passage, which was fairly broad, ended in a glass door, which
admitted one to a kind of courtyard, where a sickly conifer stood on a
round patch of grass, which the dampness rotted. On the right of the
passage was the office, whither Madame Broquette, at the request of her
customers, summoned the nurses, who waited in a neighboring room, which
was simply furnished with a greasy deal table in the centre. The
furniture of the office was some old Empire stuff, upholstered in red
velvet. There was a little mahogany centre table, and a gilt clock. Then,
on the left of the passage, near the kitchen, was the general refectory,
with two long tables, covered with oilcloth, and surrounded by straggling
chairs, whose straw seats were badly damaged. Just a make-believe sweep
with a broom was given there every day: one could divine long-amassed,
tenacious dirt in every dim corner; and the place reeked with an odor of
bad cookery mingled with that of sour milk.

When Boutan thrust open the office door he saw that Madame Broquette was
busy with an old gentleman, who sat there inspecting a party of nurses.
She recognized the doctor, and made a gesture of regret. "No matter, no
matter," he exclaimed; "I am not in a hurry: I will wait."

Through the open door Mathieu had caught sight of Mademoiselle Herminie,
the daughter of the house, ensconced in one of the red velvet armchairs
near the window, and dreamily perusing a novel there, while her mother,
standing up, extolled her goods in her most dignified way to the old
gentleman, who gravely contemplated the procession of nurses and seemed
unable to make up his mind.

"Let us have a look at the garden," said the doctor, with a laugh.

One of the boasts of the establishment, indeed, as set forth in its
prospectus, was a garden and a tree in it, as if there were plenty of
good air there, as in the country. They opened the glass door, and on a
bench near the tree they saw a plump girl, who doubtless had just
arrived, pretending to clean a squealing infant. She herself looked
sordid, and had evidently not washed since her journey. In one corner
there was an overflow of kitchen utensils, a pile of cracked pots and
greasy and rusty saucepans. Then, at the other end, a French window gave
access to the nurses' waiting-room, and here again there was a nauseous
spectacle of dirt and untidiness.

All at once Monsieur Broquette darted forward, though whence he had come
it was hard to say. At all events, he had seen Boutan, who was a client
that needed attention. "Is my wife busy, then?" said he. "I cannot allow
you to remain waiting here, doctor. Come, come, I pray you."

With his little ferreting eyes he had caught sight of the dirty girl
cleaning the child, and he was anxious that his visitors should see
nothing further of a character to give them a bad impression of the
establishment. "Pray, doctor, follow me," he repeated, and understanding
that an example was necessary, he turned to the girl, exclaiming, "What
business have you to be here? Why haven't you gone upstairs to wash and
dress? I shall fling a pailful of water in your face if you don't hurry
off and tidy yourself."

Then he forced her to rise and drove her off, all scared and terrified,
in front of him. When she had gone upstairs he led the two gentlemen to
the office entrance and began to complain: "Ah! doctor, if you only knew
what trouble I have even to get those girls to wash their hands! We who
are so clean! who put all our pride in keeping the house clean. If ever a
speck of dust is seen anywhere it is certainly not my fault."

Since the girl had gone upstairs a fearful tumult had arisen on the upper
floors, whence also a vile smell descended. Some dispute, some battle,
seemed to be in progress. There were shouts and howls, followed by a
furious exchange of vituperation.

"Pray excuse me," at last exclaimed Monsieur Broquette; "my wife will
receive you in a minute."

Thereupon he slipped off and flew up the stairs with noiseless agility.
And directly afterwards there was an explosion. Then the house suddenly
sank into death-like silence. All that could be heard was the voice of
Madame in the office, as, in a very dignified manner, she kept on
praising her goods.

"Well, my friend," said Boutan to Mathieu, while they walked up and down
the passage, "all this, the material side of things, is nothing. What you
should see and know is what goes on in the minds of all these people. And
note that this is a fair average place. There are others which are real
dens, and which the police sometimes have to close. No doubt there is a
certain amount of supervision, and there are severe regulations which
compel the nurses to bring certificates of morality, books setting forth
their names, ages, parentage, the situations they have held, and so on,
with other documents on which they have immediately to secure a signature
from the Prefecture, where the final authorization is granted them. But
these precautions don't prevent fraud and deceit of various kinds. The
women assert that they have only recently begun nursing, when they have
been doing it for months; they show you superb children which they have
borrowed and which they assert to be their own. And there are many other
tricks to which they resort in their eagerness to make money."

As the doctor and Mathieu chatted on, they paused for a moment near the
door of the refectory, which chanced to be open, and there, among other
young peasant women, they espied La Couteau hastily partaking of cold
meat. Doubtless she had just arrived from Rougemont, and, after disposing
of the batch of nurses she had brought with her, was seeking sustenance
for the various visits which she would have to make before returning
home. The refectory, with its wine-stained tables and greasy walls, cast
a smell like that of a badly-kept sink.

"Ah! so you know La Couteau!" exclaimed Boutan, when Mathieu had told him
of his meetings with the woman. "Then you know the depths of crime. La
Couteau is an ogress! And yet, think of it, with our fine social
organization, she is more or less useful, and perhaps I myself shall be
happy to choose one of the nurses that she has brought with her."

At this moment Madame Broquette very amiably asked the visitors into her
office. After long reflection, the old gentleman had gone off without
selecting any nurse, but saying that he would return some other time.

"There are folks who don't know their own minds," said Madame Broquette
sententiously. "It isn't my fault, and I sincerely beg you to excuse me,
doctor. If you want a good nurse you will be satisfied, for I have just
received some excellent ones from the provinces. I will show you."

Herminie, meanwhile, had not condescended to raise her nose from her
novel. She remained ensconced in her armchair, still reading, with a
weary, bored expression on her anaemic countenance. Mathieu, after
sitting down a little on one side, contented himself with looking on,
while Boutan stood erect, attentive to every detail, like a commander
reviewing his troops. And the procession began.

Having opened a door which communicated with the common room, Madame
Broquette, assuming the most noble airs, leisurely introduced the pick of
her nurses, in groups of three, each with her infant in her arms. About a
dozen were thus inspected: short ones with big heavy limbs, tall ones
suggesting maypoles, dark ones with coarse stiff hair, fair ones with the
whitest of skins, quick ones and slow ones, ugly ones and others who were
pleasant-looking. All, however, wore the same nervous, silly smile, all
swayed themselves with embarrassed timidity, the anxious mien of the
bondswoman at the slave market, who fears that she may not find a
purchaser. They clumsily tried to put on graceful ways, radiant with
internal joy directly a customer seemed to nibble, but clouding over and
casting black glances at their companions when the latter seemed to have
the better chance. Out of the dozen the doctor began by setting three
aside, and finally he detained but one, in order that he might study her
more fully.

"One can see that Monsieur le Docteur knows his business," Madame
Broquette allowed herself to say, with a flattering smile. "I don't often
have such pearls. But she has only just arrived, otherwise she would
probably have been engaged already. I can answer for her as I could for
myself, for I have put her out before."

The nurse was a dark woman of about twenty-six, of average height, built
strongly enough, but having a heavy, common face with a hard-looking jaw.
Having already been in service, however, she held herself fairly well.

"So that child is not your first one?" asked the doctor.

"No, monsieur, he's my third."

Then Boutan inquired into her circumstances, studied her papers, took her
into Madame Broquette's private room for examination, and on his return
make a minute inspection of her child, a strong plump boy, some three
months old, who in the interval had remained very quiet on an armchair.
The doctor seemed satisfied, but he suddenly raised his head to ask, "And
that child is really your own?"

"Oh! monsieur, where could I have got him otherwise?"

"Oh! my girl, children are borrowed, you know."

Then he paused for a moment, still hesitating and looking at the young
woman, embarrassed by some feeling of doubt, although she seemed to
embody all requirements. "And are you all quite well in your family?" he
asked; "have none of your relatives ever died of chest complaints?"

"Never, monsieur."

"Well, of course you would not tell me if they had. Your books ought to
contain a page for information of that kind. And you, are you of sober
habits? You don't drink?"

"Oh! monsieur."

This time the young woman bristled up, and Boutan had to calm her. Then
her face brightened with pleasure as soon as the doctor--with the gesture
of a man who is taking his chance, for however careful one may be there
is always an element of chance in such matters--said to her: "Well, it is
understood, I engage you. If you can send your child away at once, you
can go this evening to the address I will give you. Let me see, what is
your name?"

"Marie Lebleu."

Madame Broquette, who, without presuming to interfere with a doctor, had
retained her majestic air which so fully proclaimed the high
respectability of her establishment, now turned towards her daughter:
"Herminie, go to see if Madame Couteau is still there."

Then, as the girl slowly raised her pale dreamy eyes without stirring
from her chair, her mother came to the conclusion that she had better
execute the commission herself. A moment later she came back with La
Couteau.

The doctor was now settling money matters. Eighty francs a month for the
nurse; and forty-five francs for her board and lodging at the agency and
Madame Broquette's charges. Then there was the question of her child's
return to the country, which meant another thirty francs, without
counting a gratuity to La Couteau.

"I'm going back this evening," said the latter; "I'm quite willing to
take the little one with me. In the Avenue d'Antin, did you say? Oh! I
know, there's a lady's maid from my district in that house. Marie can go
there at once. When I've settled my business, in a couple of hours, I
will go and rid her of her baby."

On entering the office, La Couteau had glanced askance at Mathieu,
without, however, appearing to recognize him. He had remained on his
chair silently watching the scene--first an inspection as of cattle at a
market, and then a bargaining, the sale of a mother's milk. And by
degrees pity and revolt had filled his heart. But a shudder passed
through him when La Couteau turned towards the quiet, fine-looking child,
of which she promised to rid the nurse. And once more he pictured her
with her five companions at the St.-Lazare railway station, each, like
some voracious crow, with a new-born babe in her clutches. It was the
pillaging beginning afresh; life and hope were again being stolen from
Paris. And this time, as the doctor said, a double murder was threatened;
for, however careful one may be, the employer's child often dies from
another's milk, and the nurse's child, carried back into the country like
a parcel, is killed with neglect and indigestible pap.

But everything was now settled, and so the doctor and his companion drove
away to Grenelle. And there, at the very entrance of the Beauchene works,
came a meeting which again filled Mathieu with emotion. Morange, the
accountant, was returning to his work after dejeuner, accompanied by his
daughter Reine, both of them dressed in deep mourning. On the morrow of
Valerie's funeral, Morange had returned to his work in a state of
prostration which almost resembled forgetfulness. It was clear that he
had abandoned all ambitious plans of quitting the works to seek a big
fortune elsewhere. Still he could not make up his mind to leave his flat,
though it was now too large for him, besides being too expensive. But
then his wife had lived in those rooms, and he wished to remain in them.
And, moreover, he desired to provide his daughter with all comfort. All
the affection of his weak heart was now given to that child, whose
resemblance to her mother distracted him. He would gaze at her for hours
with tears in his eyes. A great passion was springing up within him; his
one dream now was to dower her richly and seek happiness through her, if
indeed he could ever be happy again. Thus feelings of avarice had come to
him; he economized with respect to everything that was not connected with
her, and secretly sought supplementary work in order that he might give
her more luxury and increase her dower. Without her he would have died of
weariness and self-abandonment. She was indeed fast becoming his very
life.

"Why, yes," said she with a pretty smile, in answer to a question which
Boutan put to her, "it is I who have brought poor papa back. I wanted to
be sure that he would take a stroll before setting to work again. Other
wise he shuts himself up in his room and doesn't stir."

Morange made a vague apologetic gesture. At home, indeed, overcome as he
was by grief and remorse, he lived in his bedroom in the company of a
collection of his wife's portraits, some fifteen photographs, showing her
at all ages, which he had hung on the walls.

"It is very fine to-day, Monsieur Morange," said Boutan, "you do right in
taking a stroll."

The unhappy man raised his eyes in astonishment, and glanced at the sun
as if he had not previously noticed it. "That is true, it is fine
weather--and besides it is very good for Reine to go out a little."

Then he tenderly gazed at her, so charming, so pink and white in her
black mourning gown. He was always fearing that she must feel bored
during the long hours when he left her at home, alone with the servant.
To him solitude was so distressful, so full of the wife whom he mourned,
and whom he accused himself of having killed.

"Papa won't believe that one never feels _ennui_ at my age," said the
girl gayly. "Since my poor mamma is no longer there, I must needs be a
little woman. And, besides, the Baroness sometimes calls to take me out."

Then she gave a shrill cry on seeing a brougham draw up close to the
curb. A woman was leaning out of the window, and she recognized her.

"Why, papa, there is the Baroness! She must have gone to our house, and
Clara must have told her that I had accompanied you here."

This, indeed, was what had happened. Morange hastily led Reine to the
carriage, from which Seraphine did not alight. And when his daughter had
sprung in joyously, he remained there another moment, effusively thanking
the Baroness, and delighted to think that his dear child was going to
amuse herself. Then, after watching the brougham till it disappeared, he
entered the factory, looking suddenly aged and shrunken, as if his grief
had fallen on his shoulders once more, so overwhelming him that he quite
forgot the others, and did not even take leave of them.

"Poor fellow!" muttered Mathieu, who had turned icy cold on seeing
Seraphine's bright mocking face and red hair at the carriage window.

Then he was going to his office when Beauchene beckoned to him from one
of the windows of the house to come in with the doctor. The pair of them
found Constance and Maurice in the little drawing-room, whither the
father had repaired to finish his coffee and smoke a cigar. Boutan
immediately attended to the child, who was much better with respect to
his legs, but who still suffered from stomachic disturbance, the
slightest departure from the prescribed diet leading to troublesome
complications.

Constance, though she did not confess it, had become really anxious about
the boy, and questioned the doctor, and listened to him with all
eagerness. While she was thus engaged Beauchene drew Mathieu on one side.

"I say," he began, laughing, "why did you not tell me that everything was
finished over yonder? I met the pretty blonde in the street yesterday."

Mathieu quietly replied that he had waited to be questioned in order to
render an account of his mission, for he had not cared to be the first to
raise such a painful subject. The money handed to him for expenses had
proved sufficient, and whenever the other desired it, he could produce
receipts for his various disbursements. He was already entering into
particulars when Beauchene jovially interrupted him.

"You know what happened here? She had the audacity to come and ask for
work, not of me of course, but of the foreman of the women's work-room.
Fortunately I had foreseen this and had given strict orders; so the
foreman told her that considerations of order and discipline prevented
him from taking her back. Her sister Euphrasie, who is to be married next
week, is still working here. Just fancy them having another set-to!
Besides, her place is not here."

Then he went to take a little glass of cognac which stood on the
mantelpiece.

Mathieu had learnt only the day before that Norine, on leaving Madame
Bourdieu's, had sought a temporary refuge with a female friend, not
caring to resume a life of quarrelling at her parents' home. Besides her
attempt to regain admittance at Beauchene's, she had applied at two other
establishments; but, as a matter of fact, she did not evince any
particular ardor in seeking to obtain work. Four months' idleness and
coddling had altogether disgusted her with a factory hand's life, and the
inevitable was bound to happen. Indeed Beauchene, as he came back sipping
his cognac, resumed: "Yes, I met her in the street. She was quite smartly
dressed, and leaning on the arm of a big, bearded young fellow, who did
nothing but make eyes at her. It was certain to come to that, you know. I
always thought so."

Then he was stepping towards his wife and the doctor, when he remembered
something else, came back, and asked Mathieu in a yet lower tone, "What
was it you were telling me about the child?" And as soon as Mathieu had
related that he had taken the infant to the Foundling Hospital so as to
be certain that it was deposited there, he warmly pressed his hand.
"That's perfect. Thank you, my dear fellow; I shall be at peace now."

He felt, indeed, intensely relieved, hummed a lively air, and then took
his stand before Constance, who was still consulting the doctor. She was
holding little Maurice against her knees, and gazing at him with the
jealous love of a good bourgeoise, who carefully watched over the health
of her only son, that son whom she wished to make a prince of industry
and wealth. All at once, however, in reply to a remark from Boutan, she
exclaimed: "Why then, doctor, you think me culpable? You really say that
a child, nursed by his mother, always has a stronger constitution than
others, and can the better resist the ailments of childhood?"

"Oh! there is no doubt of it, madame."

Beauchene, ceasing to chew his cigar, shrugged his shoulders, and burst
into a sonorous laugh: "Oh! don't you worry, that youngster will live to
be a hundred! Why, the Burgundian who nursed him was as strong as a rock!
But, I say, doctor, you intend then to make the Chambers pass a law for
obligatory nursing by mothers?"

At this sally Boutan also began to laugh. "Well, why not?" said he.

This at once supplied Beauchene with material for innumerable jests. Why,
such a law would completely upset manners and customs, social life would
be suspended, and drawing-rooms would become deserted! Posters would be
placarded everywhere bearing the inscription: "Closed on account of
nursing."

"Briefly," said Beauchene, in conclusion, "you want to have a
revolution."

"A revolution, yes," the doctor gently replied, "and we will effect it."

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