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'Université, 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 _déjeuner_ 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 Séguin 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 Beauchêne, 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 Beauchêne 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 Roquépine 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 Séguins 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 Andrée, 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 Séguins' 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 Andrée."
"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 _soirées_,
and absences and social obligations of all sorts? That little Madame
Séguin 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 Roquépine.
"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 Roquépine 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 Beauchêne works,
came a meeting which again filled Mathieu with emotion. Morange, the
accountant, was returning to his work after _déjeuner_, accompanied by his
daughter Reine, both of them dressed in deep mourning. On the morrow of
Valérie'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 Séraphine 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
Séraphine's bright mocking face and red hair at the carriage window.
Then he was going to his office when Beauchêne 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 Beauchêne 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 Beauchêne 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 Beauchêne'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 Beauchêne, 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."
Beauchêne, 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 Beauchêne 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 Beauchêne, in conclusion, "you want to have a
revolution."
"A revolution, yes," the doctor gently replied, "and we will effect it."
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
Beauchêne one morning that he should leave the works at the end of the
month, for on the previous day he had spoken to Séguin, 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, Séguin'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
Séguin 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, Céleste 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 Céleste'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 Céleste 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
Roquépine.
"After bidding Céleste 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, Céleste, 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, Céleste 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 Céleste, 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 Céleste; "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 Céleste 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 Céleste, 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 Céleste, "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 Céleste, 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
Céleste. "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 Séguin 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 Andrée, 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 Andrée,
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 Séguin 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. Séguin 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 Andrée, 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 Séguin, 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?" Séguin ended by asking in his curt dry voice.
"Well, what can I say? That woman is a brute beast, and I can't leave
Andrée 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 Séguin. 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."
Séguin had abruptly halted in front of Andrée, 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 Séguin, 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 Andrée 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 Andrée 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.
Céleste, 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."
Céleste thereupon placed Andrée 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. Céleste 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. Andrée
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
Séguins was effected with extraordinary skill. At first some
unpleasantness seemed likely, because Céleste 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-Elysées, 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 Andrée, 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 Séguin 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 Séguin 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-Elysées,
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 Céleste, 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 Andrée an outing,
with her long purple ribbons streaming victoriously in the sunshine.