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[Illustration: Copyright 1904 by G. Barrie & Sons.]
_CHÉRUBIN IN A DILEMMA_
_He tried to retrace his steps, but Madame de
Noirmont and her daughter had seated themselves
in front of him and closed the way by which he had
come; so that he was blockaded in a very confined
space, which he could not leave except by compelling
the ladies in front of him to rise._
NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock
VOLUME XIX
THE BASHFUL LOVER
PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
GEORGE BARRIE’S SONS
THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK
_Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons._
THE BASHFUL LOVER
Shyness is a failing for which it is
dangerous to reprove those whom we
wish to correct of it.
_Maxims_ of LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.
PART I
I
AN OLD YOUNG HUSBAND AND WIFE
It was the year 1818, I will not say of happy memory, because I do not
remember whether that year was happier than other years; probably it was
so to certain people, and just the opposite to others; and sometimes,
often, I may say almost always, the same cause produces contrary
results; that is to say, the thing that causes one person’s happiness
causes the unhappiness of another person.
But this has been so in all times, and doubtless it will continue to be
so till the end of time, assuming that time is to have an end. Nature
loves contrasts; I cannot guess why, but that does not prevent me from
believing that she is right, for Nature always does perfectly whatever
she does.
It was, then, the year 1818.
In an old mansion in Faubourg Saint-Germain, situated on I do not know
what street,--and that is of little importance,--a large company was
assembled; they were dancing, enjoying themselves--or, at least,
pretending to do so, which is not always the same thing; in short, it
was a wedding party, the wedding of Monsieur le Marquis de Grandvilain
and Mademoiselle Aménaïde Dufoureau.
There was a choice orchestra, in which, however, there were no cornets,
because that instrument had not then acquired a commanding position in
our ballrooms; there was a select company also; the dancing was marked
by that decency, that gravity, that good-breeding which prevents French
dancing from being amusing, and which has given rise to the saying that
the merriest people on earth dance with the least indication of
merriment.
It is true that since that time a certain much more décolleté dance has
found its way from the dance hall to the masked ball, and from the
masked ball has insinuated itself into some salons; a dance which would
be fascinating, and which would have a genuine character of its own,
were it not that most of the people who dance it substitute burlesque
for grace and indecency for _abandon_. But that dance was not in
evidence at Monsieur le Marquis de Grandvilain’s wedding.
And then the bridegroom did not set the example for the dancers; he did
not run from one to the other, inviting them to dance and offering them
his hand. After opening the ball with his wife, he had thrown himself
into an immense easy-chair, contented to watch the others, smiling at
the ladies and beating time with his head.
You are surprised without doubt at the bridegroom’s behavior, and you
would like to know the explanation; your surprise will cease when I tell
you that on his wedding day Monsieur de Grandvilain was entering his
sixty-ninth year. At that age you will understand that a man is no
longer one of those inveterate dancers who refuse to leave the floor,
one of those dancers who engage partners for six quadrilles ahead.
Perhaps now you will say that monsieur le marquis was as old for
marriage as for balls; that it is folly to marry at sixty-nine years.
In the first place, what do you know about it? Has it ever happened to
you? And even if it be folly, what harm is there in it, if it makes one
happy? The maddest people are sometimes the wisest. Let us marry so long
as we are inclined, and let us dance as long as we can. Cato learned to
dance at sixty. Plato praises dancing; and you must be well aware that
King David gambolled in front of the Ark of the Covenant. I agree that
that was a strange way to manifest his faith and devotion, and I am glad
to think that, at all events, David did not know the dance which I have
just mentioned.
Let us return to the groom. Monsieur de Grandvilain deserved a different
name from the one which he bore: he was of medium height and well
proportioned; he had once had a fine figure, and he still possessed a
well-shaped leg and sufficient calf for a man about to marry. His face,
although it was a little like a sheep’s, lacked neither dignity nor
charm; his features were regular, his eyes had been very fine, and they
had retained an amiable expression; lastly, his smile was still passably
mischievous.
You see that that gentleman still retained many good qualities, and that
it was very excusable for him to have thought of marrying in order to
turn them all to some account.
Aménaïde Dufoureau, who had given her hand to Monsieur de Grandvilain,
was entering her forty-fourth year and had hitherto remained single.
Single! do you realize the full force of that word? It indicates an
inexperienced heart, an inexperienced soul, an untried love, and
charms--like all the rest! A single maiden of forty-four, and a flower
that has never been plucked! But what a flower, great heaven! and what a
long time it has had to go to seed!
For my part, I confess with all humility that I should prefer ten
married women at that age to one flower which has been left so long on
its stalk.
Probably Monsieur de Grandvilain did not agree with me. Opinions are
free, and if we all had the same opinions, it would be very tiresome,
because we should no longer have the pleasure of arguing and disputing.
Monsieur de Grandvilain had known Mademoiselle Aménaïde Dufoureau in
1798. At that time she was only twenty-four years old; it is to be
presumed that her heart was at least as fresh as at forty-four; and it
is certain that her face was more so.
At that time Aménaïde was a very pretty young woman, slender, graceful
and ethereal; her black eyes, level with her face, gleamed with health
and animation; her mouth, which was a little large, laughed frequently
to display a double row of faultless teeth; and although her nose was a
little coarse, her forehead a little low, and her complexion a little
dark, Mademoiselle Dufoureau might have passed for a very attractive
person.
Monsieur de Grandvilain, who was forty-nine at that time, and considered
himself still a young man, because he had retained the tastes and the
temperament of a young man, had met Aménaïde in society and had paid
court to her; but with the frivolity of a man accustomed to making
conquests, with the self-assurance of a rake who had never found women
cruel, and with the fatuity of a marquis, who thought that he bestowed
much honor upon a young woman of the middle class by allowing his eyes
to rest upon her.
Mademoiselle Dufoureau was, in fact, only a simple bourgeoise; her
parents, worthy tradespeople, had died, leaving her fifteen hundred
francs a year and excellent principles.
The fifteen hundred francs a year was but a slender fortune; but
combined with the young lady’s virtue and innocence, it formed a
marriage portion which some very wealthy young women would be sorely at
a loss to offer their husbands.
Monsieur de Grandvilain, still proud and magnificent, fluttered about
that flower of twenty-four years.
Mademoiselle Aménaïde found monsieur le marquis very agreeable; she was
flattered to be noticed by him; and she even allowed him to see that her
heart was not indifferent to his homage. But when she discovered that
Monsieur de Grandvilain had no idea of making her a marchioness, she
proudly repulsed him, saying:
“For what do you take me, monsieur?”
The marquis, offended by her resistance, turned on his heel, humming a
tune from _Blaise et Babet_, an opera-comique, then in great vogue; the
operas of those days abounded in tunes which were easily remembered, and
were sung and whistled on the streets. Other times, other music!
Monsieur de Grandvilain carried elsewhere his glances, his passions, his
homage and his heart. Mademoiselle Aménaïde Dufoureau concealed in the
depths of her heart her regrets, her sighs, and her ardor.
Think how fortunate men are! A woman resists them, they simply apply
elsewhere, and they always end by finding a place for their love, which
they offer to every pretty face they see. They are like those people who
have their pockets full of money and say to themselves: “I will buy
whatever I please, I will have the best and finest things I can find,
for I pay cash!” On the other hand, virtuous women are obliged to ask
for credit; for they are willing to promise their love, but they do not
propose to give it at once.
Six years passed, during which monsieur le marquis, passing constantly
from conquest to conquest, spending his time in a life of pleasure, did
not again see poor Aménaïde Dufoureau, who led a very tranquil, very
modest life, and did not frequent the society in which Monsieur de
Grandvilain moved.
At the end of that time, an outdoor fête in the suburbs of Paris brought
about a meeting between those two people who had ceased to seek each
other. The marquis still found Aménaïde attractive, and Aménaïde could
not restrain a sigh or two, which indicated that the past had not been
entirely forgotten.
Once more the marquis played the amiable seducer; he thought that the
flower of thirty years would be plucked more easily than that of
twenty-four; but he was mistaken; he encountered the same virtue, the
same resistance, as before, and yet she did not conceal from him that
she loved him. She desired to be a marchioness, however, and she did not
propose to give herself to anybody but her husband.
Once more our seducer turned on his heel. He travelled; he was away from
France six years. When he returned, he was much less active, much less
volatile; his bearing was still distinguished, but his step was slow and
heavy. However, although he was then sixty-one years old, the marquis
believed himself still to be very fascinating; there are people who
refuse to grow old; they are perfectly right, but in that case it is
time which is in the wrong.
Monsieur de Grandvilain once more met Aménaïde Dufoureau; she was still
unmarried, although she had seen thirty-six springs.--We must never
reckon except by springs, for that gives an air of youth.--Had she
remained unmarried for lack of opportunity to marry, or because she had
preferred to keep her heart for the marquis? We are too gallant not to
believe that it was for the last reason, and the marquis probably
thought the same, because that flattered his self-esteem.
Aménaïde was no longer so slender, so graceful or so willowy as she was
at twenty-four, but she was still fresh enough, and her eyes, while
losing their vivacity, had become more tender. Monsieur de Grandvilain,
always pleased to meet the only woman over whom he had not triumphed,
began again to pay court to the flower of thirty-six years. But he was
no more fortunate, and that was certain to be the case. After having had
the strength to resist him when he was young and good-looking, it was
not probable that she would falter when he was old and faded. Monsieur
de Grandvilain, still haughty and pretentious, turned on his heel once
more, swearing that he would never return again, and that he would carry
his homage elsewhere.
Poor old fellow, who had passed his sixtieth year, and who believed
himself still capable of inconstancy! The opportunities to forget
Aménaïde no longer offered themselves; time passed and brought no
distraction; all the ladies became as cruel to the marquis as
Mademoiselle Dufoureau, and our old rake said to himself:
“It is amazing how the fair sex changes! women no longer have such
susceptible hearts as they used to have!”
At last the marquis decided to return to Aménaïde; she was approaching
her forty-fourth spring, and Monsieur de Grandvilain said to himself:
“If I wait until her springs become more numerous, she will strongly
resemble a winter. I am beginning to be old enough to settle down.
Mademoiselle Dufoureau is not of noble birth, but she is virtuous; for
twenty years she has loved me, and that deserves a reward; I will marry
her.”
And our lover of sixty-nine years at last offered his hand to the maiden
whom he might have married twenty years earlier.
When Mademoiselle Dufoureau heard him offer her his heart and his
sixty-nine years, she was tempted to reply:
“It is hardly worth while to marry now!”
But she accepted him; and that is why the wedding of those old lovers
was celebrated in the hôtel de Grandvilain, in the year 1818.
II
A LITTLE GRANDVILAIN
When a man marries at sixty-nine, can he look forward to having heirs,
to living again in his children? It seems to me not; however, it is
probable that such men always look forward to it.
When such a thing happens, when an old man’s wife becomes a mother,
jests rain down upon the husband; but the puns and jocose remarks go
astray sometimes; in such a case, even if you do not choose to believe,
it is very difficult to prove that you are wrong.
“An ass can deny more than a philosopher can prove.”
About five months after Aménaïde Dufoureau had become Madame de
Grandvilain, she went to her husband one morning, blushing, with
downcast eyes and an embarrassed air, and informed him that she hoped to
present him with a pledge of her love.
Monsieur de Grandvilain uttered a cry of joy; he rose, ran about the
room, tried to perform a pirouette, and fell to the floor; but madame
assisted him to rise, and he began again to indulge in innumerable
follies, for the pleasure he felt made him forget his age. He was proud
to have a child, and with good reason, especially as his wife’s virtue
was like that of Caesar’s wife: it was absolutely above suspicion.
From that moment, they devoted all their attention to the child that was
not yet born.
Monsieur le marquis was persuaded that it would be a boy. And in order
to believe that, he said to himself: “Good fortune never comes singly.”
Madame la marquise was overjoyed to have a child. Boy or girl, she was
certain of loving it equally; but in order to please her husband she too
pretended to count on a boy.
“I will nurse him myself!” cried Aménaïde, smiling at her husband.
“Yes, yes, we will nurse him!” repeated the marquis; “we will raise him
better than any nurse could do. What the devil! people like us ought to
understand such things better than peasants; we will make a hearty blade
of him! for I want my son to resemble his father in everything.”
As he spoke, the old marquis stuck out his leg and tried to play the
exquisite. Since he had known that his wife was enceinte, he fancied
that he was twenty years old once more.
They bought a magnificent layette for the little one which was expected;
they made great preparations to receive that scion of Monsieur de
Grandvilain becomingly; and the intoxication which they felt was
perfectly natural: if a young couple celebrate the birth of their
child, surely they have much more reason to do so who have no hope of a
repetition of such an occurrence.
As the time approached when madame la marquise was to become a mother,
the more her old husband overwhelmed her with attentions and care; it
went so far sometimes that Madame de Grandvilain lost her appetite with
her freedom of action. Monsieur le marquis would not allow her to go out
on foot, he was apprehensive of the least fatigue, he watched to see
that she ate nothing that might injure her; and his espionage became
sheer cruelty to her who was the object of it, for the marquis detected
peril in the simplest thing, and it was at once irrevocably forbidden;
so that, toward the end of her pregnancy, Madame de Grandvilain was
given nothing but bread soup, the only sort of food which, according to
Monsieur de Grandvilain, was not dangerous for his wife. There was a
physician in attendance on the marchioness who prescribed an entirely
different diet; but the marquis depended more on himself than on the
physician, and as he grew older, he became very obstinate.
The great day arrived at last; and it was high time, for the poor
marchioness was not at all reconciled to eating nothing but bread soup.
Aménaïde brought a son into the world.
Monsieur de Grandvilain did not feel strong enough to remain with his
wife while she was in the pains of childbirth; but a servant, who had
first been a jockey, then a groom, then his master’s valet, and who had
now reached the age of fifty years, hastened to carry him the great
news.
When he caught sight of his old Jasmin, whose red and blotched face wore
a more stupid expression than usual, the marquis cried:
“Well, is it all over, Jasmin?”
“Yes, monsieur le marquis, it’s done! Ah! we had a very hard time, but
it’s all right at last.”
Everyone knows that the old servants in great families are in the habit
of saying _we_, when speaking of their master’s affairs, and Monsieur de
Grandvilain forgave his former jockey for employing that form of
expression.
“What! it is all over, Jasmin? Ah! the poor marchioness! But go on, you
villain! what is it?”
“It is something magnificent, monsieur, you will be well pleased!”
“But the sex, you rascal, the sex; hasn’t the child any sex?”
“Oh! yes, indeed! a superb sex! we have been delivered of a boy, my dear
master.”
“A boy, Jasmin? a boy! Oh! what happiness! but I said so; I was sure of
it; I would have bet on it; don’t I always know what I am doing?”
“You are very clever, monsieur le marquis.”
“A boy--I have a son--I have an heir to my name! Jasmin, I will give you
a present of ten crowns for bringing me this good news.”
“Thanks, my dear master. Vive les Grandvilains!”
“I have a boy--such pleasure--such--Ah! I can’t stand it any longer.
Jasmin, pass me my phial of salts--no, give me a small glass of madeira;
I feel as if my heart were stopping.”
“Come, come, monsieur le marquis, pull yourself together,” said Jasmin,
as he handed a glass of madeira to his master. “This is not the time to
be ill.”
“You are right; but what can you expect?--the shock, the joy--This is
the first time I have ever been a father,--to my knowledge, at
least--and it produces such an impression! Pray tell me some details
while I recover myself; for I haven’t the strength to go to my wife as
yet.”
“Well, monsieur le marquis, understand that I had stationed myself
outside madame’s door, so that I might come and tell you as soon as the
child was born; for I thought that you would be impatient to know about
it.”
“Very good, Jasmin; go on, go on.”
“After some time I heard cries. I was tempted to run away, but I held my
ground, and to give myself courage, I took a good pinch of snuff.
Suddenly the door opened; it was the doctor. He was looking for someone;
he saw me and motioned for me to go in. I obeyed.”
“What! you went into madame la marquise’s room, you rascal, while----”
“No, monsieur, I stayed in the little reception room. Everybody was
excited; the nurse, the lady’s maid,--that great idiot of a Turlurette
had chosen to be ill instead of making herself useful----”
“That proves her attachment to my wife; go on.”
“I beg pardon, monsieur, I must blow my nose first. Well, I was called
to help Turlurette; and as I was much more anxious about madame, I
asked:
“‘First tell me if we are delivered.’
“‘Yes,’ the doctor replied.
“‘Well then, what have we?’
“‘Look, you idiot.’
“As he spoke, the doctor put a little bundle in my arms. Just imagine,
monsieur, that at first I thought it was a cheese. It was round and it
had a funny smell; but on looking at it closely, I found it was a little
boy, just out of his shell.”
“What does this mean, Jasmin? What! it was my son that you mistook for a
cheese?”
“Bless my soul! when one has never seen a new-born child before,
monsieur,--and it was the first one that I ever saw.”
“Take my son for a cheese! You are a stupid lout, and you shall have no
present!”
“O monsieur le marquis! it isn’t that I regret the money, but I didn’t
think that I had deserved your anger; especially, as on looking at the
little boy that I had in my arms, I saw with delight that he has all our
features--he is the living image of us!”
“What! the living image of _us_!--Have you been drinking, Jasmin?”
“Pardon me, monsieur le marquis, but it is my affection that carries me
away! When I say we, my dear master knows very well that I mean him! In
fact, it is your noble face, monsieur, your fine aquiline nose, your
pretty little chin; and he will have your fine teeth, which you no
longer have. I would bet that he will have them.”
The old marquis could not help smiling, and he replied in a milder tone:
“The dear child!--Well, I promised you a present, and you shall have it.
I know that you are a faithful servant, my poor Jasmin, but you should
be careful what you say when you are speaking of your master’s son.”
“The little fellow is a real Love, monsieur. Ah! if I could have suckled
him, how happy I would have been!”
“I feel strong enough to go to see my wife and my son now. Come, Jasmin,
escort me.”
“Yes, monsieur, let us go to see our child.”
The old marquis, overjoyed to be born again at seventy, rose, took his
valet’s arm, and tried to run to his wife’s apartment; but as both
master and servant were heavy of foot, their progress was confined to a
rather swift walk, which did not, however, prevent them from being out
of breath when they reached the marchioness’s room.
Monsieur hastened forward to embrace madame, shedding tears of joy; and
in his emotion, he fell upon her bed, from which they had all the
difficulty in the world to raise him, because happiness changed his legs
and arms to cotton. When they had succeeded in placing Monsieur de
Grandvilain in a chair, he asked for a glass of madeira in order to
restore his strength and put him in a condition to embrace his son.
Jasmin went again to fetch the madeira; he filled a glass for his
master, and one for himself also, to drink which he retired behind a
long window curtain, finding that he too needed to replenish his
strength.
“And now, where is my son?” said the marquis in a trembling voice,
glancing about the room.
“He will be brought to you in a moment, monsieur,” said the buxom
Turlurette; “the nurse is fixing him to show you.”
“I don’t want him to be dressed,” said the marquis; “on the contrary, I
want to see him naked; then I shall be better able to judge of his
strength, of his constitution.”
“Yes, yes,” said Jasmin, “we shall be very glad to see what we have
made!”
“You hear, Turlurette,--tell the nurse to bring me my son as naked as a
worm.”
“Yes, let her bring him to us at once, like a savage, without any
fig-leaf.”
“Jasmin, will you be good enough to keep your tongue quiet for a
moment?”
“I beg pardon, monsieur le marquis; it is my impatience to admire our
dear love.”
Turlurette made haste to perform her errand, and the nurse soon
appeared, carrying before her a large basin, wherein the new-born child,
entirely naked, moved about and stretched out at pleasure its little
pink and white limbs.
The nurse handed the child to the marquis, as the keys of a city used in
the old days to be presented to a conqueror.
At sight of his son, Monsieur de Grandvilain uttered a joyful cry, and
put out his arms to take him; but his emotion caused another attack of
faintness; he had not the strength to take the child, but fell back in
his chair. Meanwhile, the nurse, thinking that the father was going to
take what she held out to him, had relaxed her hold of the child and the
basin alike, and both would have fallen to the floor if stout Turlurette
had not luckily caught the child by the part which presented itself
first to her grasp.
The bowl fell to the floor and broke into a thousand pieces. When she
heard the crash, madame la marquise thought that her son was killed.
“My child! what has happened to him?”
“Nothing, madame,” said Turlurette, giving the little boy to her
mistress; “he didn’t fall; I caught him by--I got hold of him.”
“The dear love! I had a terrible fright!--Great heaven! Turlurette, what
a very strange way to hold the child!”
“Bless me! it’s very lucky that I caught hold of him as I did! If it
hadn’t been so, he might have fallen with the basin, and God knows if he
wouldn’t have been smashed like it.”
While all this was taking place, Jasmin, seeing his master lying back in
his chair, pale and trembling, hastily poured out another glass of
madeira for him, and then retired behind the curtain once more.
Monsieur de Grandvilain, having recovered his strength for the third
time, took the child whom Turlurette still held, and embraced him
heartily; then held him up in the air, exclaiming:
“So this is my son! my heir! Corbleu! I was sure that I should have a
son.”
But the marchioness, fearing that her husband would faint again, and
that he would then drop the child altogether, begged him to sit down
beside her bed; Monsieur de Grandvilain complied, and then began to turn
the child over and over, scrutinizing every part.
“What a lovely child!” he cried; “and to think that I begot him!”
“Yes, we begot him!” muttered Jasmin, who stood behind his master’s
chair, with the bottle of madeira in his hand, in case of an emergency.
“How plump and pink he is; what pretty little calves!”
“Faith, I haven’t as much calf as that now!” said Jasmin, glancing at
his own legs.
“What a pretty little round head!”
“One would swear that it was a Dutch cheese,” muttered Jasmin; but
luckily for him, his master did not hear his reflection that time, or it
would have caused the suppression of his present for good and all.
“He is built like an Apollo!--and he has--why, it is herculean! Look,
Jasmin,--see how--how he has developed already!”
“It is marvelous,” said Jasmin, who, after examining the proportions of
the child, made mentally the same reflection that he had made on the
subject of his legs.
After Monsieur de Grandvilain had thoroughly scrutinized his son _per
fas et nefas_, he handed him to his spouse, saying:
“By the way, my dear love, what shall we call him?”
“That is what I have been thinking of, my dear husband, ever since he
was born.”
“My son must have a noble name. My own name is Sigismond; that is a good
name, but I don’t like the idea of sons having their fathers’ names;
that leads to mistakes, until you don’t know where you are.”
“Listen, monsieur le marquis, the most appropriate name for the dear
love would be Chérubin. What do you say to that? Isn’t it a very pretty
name?”
“Chérubin!” said the marquis, shaking his head; “that is very girlish;
there is nothing warlike about it.”
“Why, monsieur, what’s the necessity of giving a warrior’s name to our
son? That would have been very well in Napoléon’s time, but now it is no
longer the fashion; let us call our son Chérubin, I beg you!”
“Marchioness,” replied the marquis, kissing his wife’s hand, “you have
given me a son and I can refuse you nothing. His name shall be Chérubin;
that rather reminds one of the _Mariage de Figaro_; but after all,
Beaumarchais’s Chérubin is an attractive little rascal; all the women
dote on him, and it would not be a bad thing if our son should resemble
the little page.”
“Yes, yes,” murmured Jasmin, who stood behind his master’s chair,
swaying from side to side, for the visits behind the curtain had begun
to make his legs unsteady. “Yes, Chérubin is very nice; it rhymes with
Jasmin.”
The marquis turned, and was tempted to strike his servant; but he,
finding that he had made another foolish speech, assumed such a piteous
expression that his master simply said to him:
“You are impertinent beyond all bounds to-day, Jasmin!”
“I beg pardon, monsieur le marquis, it is my delight, my enthusiasm. I
am so happy, that it seems to me that everything in the room is
dancing.”
At that moment Turlurette appeared and said that all the servants in the
house had assembled and requested permission to offer their mistress a
bouquet, and their master their congratulations.
The marquis ordered his servants to be admitted.
They arrived in single file, and Jasmin, as the oldest, at once placed
himself at their head and began a complimentary harangue of which he
could not find the end, because he lost control of his tongue. But he
made the best of it, and cut his speech short by crying:
“Long live monsieur le marquis’s son and his august family!”
All the servants repeated this cry, tossing their hats or caps into the
air. Once more Monsieur de Grandvilain was deeply moved, tears came to
his eyes, and, fearing another attack of weakness, he motioned to
Jasmin, who, anticipating his command, instantly handed him a glass of
madeira.
The marquis drank it; then he thanked his people, gave them money and
sent them away to drink to the health of the newly-born. Jasmin left the
room with them, carrying a bottle of madeira, the rest of which he drank
before he joined his comrades. And that evening, the marquis’s valet was
completely drunk, and monsieur le marquis had himself taken something to
restore his strength so frequently, that he was obliged to retire
immediately on leaving the dinner table.
But one does not have a child every day, especially when one has reached
the age of seventy years.
III
JASMIN ARRANGES A SURPRISE
Little Chérubin’s baptism took place a few days after his birth; on that
occasion there were more festivities in the old mansion.
The marquis was open-handed and generous; those qualities are ordinarily
found in libertines. He spent money lavishly, and told Jasmin to despoil
the cellar. The valet, whose blotched nose betrayed his favorite
passion, promised his master to carry out his orders to the letter.
A select and fashionable company came to attend the baptism of little
Chérubin. The salons were resplendent with light; the guests chatted,
played cards, and then went to see the mother, and to admire her little
one--but not more than two at a time, for such was the doctor’s order.
The child, who had come into the world so plump and fresh and rosy, was
beginning to grow thin and yellow; one could still rave over his pretty
face, but no longer over his health.
And yet the marquis’s son was the object of the incessant care of his
mother, who had the most intense affection for him, who kept him
constantly by her side, and would not allow him to be out of her sight
for a single moment.
All this was very well; but children are not to be brought up with
affection, caresses, kisses and sweet words: nature demands a more
substantial nourishment; now, that which madame la marquise supplied to
her first-born was evidently of poor quality, and not only was not
abundant but was exceedingly deficient in quantity. In short, whether
because the bread soup diet had impaired Madame de Grandvilain’s
health--which was very probable--or for some entirely different reason,
concealed or apparent, it was a fact that little Chérubin’s mamma had
only a very little wretched milk to give her son, who had come into the
world with a hearty appetite.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau said that a mother should nurse her child, that it
was a crime to put the poor little creatures in the hands of mercenary
persons who could not have a mother’s affection for them and simply made
a business of hiring out their bodies; and in support of that argument
he cited the animals, which nurse their young themselves and never seek
others to replace them.
But, in the first place, we might remind Jean-Jacques that animals lead
a regular life--regular, that is to say, according to their nature and
their physical strength. Have you ever heard of lionesses, she-bears, or
cats even, passing their nights at balls, giving receptions, and dining
out frequently? I think not; nor have I!
We may be allowed then to insist upon a difference between animals and
men; and despite our profound regard for the philosopher of Geneva, we
will say to him further, that in this world of ours there are positions,
trades, branches of business, which make it impossible for a woman to
perform that maternal duty to which he insists that all women should
submit. When a woman, in order to earn her living, is obliged to sit all
day at a desk, or to work constantly with her needle, how do you expect
her to take her child in her arms every instant? There is a still
stronger reason for her not doing it, if her health is poor and failing.
Nurses sell their milk, you say, and never have a mother’s affection for
a strange child.
In the first place, it is not proved that a nurse does not love her
nursling dearly; there is every reason to believe, on the contrary, that
she becomes attached to the little creature whose life she sustains; and
after all, even if it were simply a matter of business, has the baker
any affection for the people to whom he sells bread? But that does not
prevent us from living on that bread.
Philosophers, men of genius, aye, even the greatest men, sometimes put
forth propositions which are far from being orthodox; and they make
mistakes like other men.
But there are people who take for very noble thoughts everything which
comes from the pen of a man who has written great things. Such people
are very generous. We rarely find gold without alloy; and can man
produce what Nature cannot produce? There are people also, who, when
they walk through a cemetery, believe in the truth of all the
inscriptions carved upon the tombs, according to which the people there
interred were models of virtue, goodness, uprightness, etc., etc. I have
infinite respect for the dead, but I do not see the necessity of trying
to deceive the living. Those who are no more were no better than we, and
we are no better than those who will come after us.
We were saying then that little Chérubin was no longer as beautiful as
an angel, although he bore the name of one; but that did not prevent all
those who went to pay their respects to the mother from complimenting
her upon her child. Honest Aménaïde listened with a sweet smile to all
the flattering words which were addressed to her son. Meanwhile,
Monsieur de Grandvilain lay back in an easy-chair, patted his legs, and
shook his head, and looked at the ladies with an air which seemed almost
to say:
“When you want one like him, apply to me.”
Luckily for him, none of the ladies was tempted to put him to the proof.
About ten o’clock in the evening, just as the doctor was urging Madame
de Grandvilain not to admit any more people to her room, and to try to
sleep, there was a sudden uproar in the courtyard, and a bright light
shone in the windows; then, something as brilliant as lightning shot
through the air.
It was the work of Jasmin, who, to celebrate the baptism of his master’s
son, had conceived the idea of a display of fireworks in the courtyard,
in order to afford the marquis and all his guests a pleasant surprise;
and who had just discharged a mortar and then a rocket, to attract
everybody to the windows.
In fact, the explosion of the mortar had caused a profound sensation in
the house; everyone thought it was the roar of cannon; the mother leaped
up in her bed, the child in its cradle, monsieur le marquis in his
chair, and all the guests, wherever they were. They gazed at each other
with a terrified expression, saying:
“What is it? What a noise! It is cannon! There must be fighting in
Paris!”
“Fighting?”
“Great heaven! can it be that the usurper has come back again?”
Remember that this happened in the year 1819, and that in the mansions
of Faubourg Saint-Germain, Napoléon was ordinarily referred to as the
usurper.
There was a moment of confusion in the salon; some of the men talked of
running to arms, others looked about for their hats, the women ran after
the men, or prepared to faint, and some talked in undertones, in
corners, with young men, whom, up to that time, they had pretended
barely to look at.
There are people who make the most of every opportunity and turn every
circumstance to advantage. Such people are necessarily those who have
the most presence of mind.
Amid the commotion, they heard a shrill voice in the courtyard:
“We are going to discharge a few fireworks in honor of the baptism, and
to celebrate the birth, of the son of our worthy master, Monsieur le
Marquis de Grandvilain and Madame la Marquise de Grandvilain, his
spouse.”
No sooner were these words heard, than a sudden change took place on
every face, except those of the people who were talking in corners. The
men laughed uproariously, the ladies threw aside the shawls and hats
which they had hastily donned, and ran to look at themselves in the
mirrors, for coquetry is the first sentiment that wakes in the ladies
when the others are still benumbed. Then everybody ran to the windows,
saying:
“Fireworks! it is fireworks! Oh! what a delightful surprise!”
“Yes,” said the old Marquis de Grandvilain, who had been more frightened
than all the others together, “yes, it is a pleasant idea of that devil
of a Jasmin. But he ought to have notified me that he intended to
surprise me, for then I should have expected it, and it would have--have
surprised me less.”
The guests were all at the windows, the ladies in front, the men behind
them, so that they were obliged to lean over a little to see; but
everybody seemed well pleased, and nobody would have changed his place
for another.
The marquis sat alone at a window in his wife’s room.
“You will not be able to see the pieces down below, my dear love,” he
said, “but I will explain them to you, and you will be able to see the
rockets and serpents perfectly from your bed.”
“Suppose it frightens Chérubin?” said the marchioness, placing her son’s
cradle at the foot of the bed.
“Don’t be afraid, marchioness; my son will take after me, he will love
the noise and smell of powder.”
Meanwhile, Jasmin, who had followed his master’s orders by levying
freely on the cellar, and had made himself, as well as his comrades,
very nearly tipsy, seemed to have gone back to his twentieth year; he
walked about the courtyard, amid the fireworks, like a general amid his
troops.
In the farthest corner of the courtyard the mortars had been placed;
they were the heavy artillery, and no more were to be fired until the
finale. But as sparks, falling in that direction, might land inside the
mortars and set them off before the time for which they were held in
reserve, the cook, who was a careful man, and who was acting as Jasmin’s
second in command, had brought from his kitchen saucepan covers, a
frying-pan, and a dish-pan, and had placed them over the mortars, which
were made like stove pipes, but of different dimensions, according to
the amount of powder they contained: so that the frying-pan was placed
on the largest one, the dish-pan on a smaller size, and the saucepan
covers on the smallest ones, all to prevent sparks or lighted fragments
of rockets from falling into the mortars.
Jasmin glanced from window to window; he waited till everybody was
placed before beginning.
The cook, who was no less impatient than the old valet, and whose brain
was excited by the marquis’s wine, stood near the fireworks with a
lighted slow-match in one hand, while with the other he pushed his
cotton cap over his left ear.
Meanwhile, stout Turlurette and two other servants were dancing about a
transparency representing a moon, which Jasmin declared to be a portrait
of young Chérubin.
“They are all there! everybody’s at the windows, and we can set them
off,” said Jasmin, after a last glance at the house.
“Yes, yes, begin,” said Turlurette. “Oh! isn’t it going to be fine?”
“No women here!” cried the cook in a determined tone; “you will make us
do some foolish thing; go up to the second floor, young women.”
“Oh! he told me that he would let me fire off one little petard at
least; didn’t you, Monsieur Jasmin?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Jasmin; “everybody must have a good time to-day; it is
for our young master! Turlurette shall fire a little rocket; that is the
least we can do for her; but not now, later.--Ready, cook, let us begin;
to our fireworks!”
The display began with a serpent or two, Bengal fire, and rockets; the
guests looked on, and when any piece seemed to be aimed at a window, the
ladies drew back with little exclamations of alarm, blended with bursts
of laughter; the men encouraged them, taking their hands and pressing
them; I am not sure that they took nothing else; however, the ladies
consented to be reassured, resumed their places, applauded and were
highly pleased; while the old marquis at his window, said to his wife:
“My dear love, it is superb! it is beautiful! it is dazzling! I am sorry
that you are so far away.”
“But, my dear, suppose it should set the house on fire!”
“Don’t be afraid; Jasmin is prudent; he has undoubtedly notified the
firemen at the station close by; besides, the courtyard is very large
and there is no danger.”
The loving Aménaïde was not thoroughly comforted; she would have
preferred that there should be no fireworks to celebrate the baptism;
but everybody seemed pleased, and she dared not deprive the company of
the pleasure which they took in the spectacle.
Soon applause rose on all sides; Jasmin had just lighted the
transparency with the moon, calling out as he did so:
“A portrait of our child, young Chérubin de Grandvilain.”
At that everybody applauded on trust, although they squinted in vain to
discover a face painted in the moon on the transparency; but they
ascribed that to the smoke, and several persons went so far as to cry
out:
“It is very like, on my word! anyone could recognize it! A very pretty
idea! such things as this are not seen anywhere except at the Marquis de
Grandvilain’s.”
While the company was admiring the transparency, Mademoiselle
Turlurette, still intent upon her idea of setting off something, went to
Jasmin and said:
“Give me your slow-match, it’s my turn; what am I going to set off?”
“Here, Mademoiselle Turlurette, set fire to this sun. But aren’t you
afraid?”
“Me, afraid! oh, no! just show me where to light it.”
“See, here is the match.”
Stout Turlurette took the slow-match which Jasmin handed to her, and
held it to the wick which protruded from the sun. Despite all the
courage which she was determined to display, the stout girl was terribly
excited, for she had never set off a piece of fireworks before. After
she had touched the match which she had in her hand to the place pointed
out to her, when she heard the powder hiss and the flame sputter close
beside her, a sudden terror took possession of Turlurette; fancying that
she was being burned by the sparks from the sun, she ran across the
courtyard, holding her dress up with one hand, as if she were trying to
make a belt of it, and with her lighted slow-match still in the other.
The latter she threw down, without looking, in the first convenient
spot.
The sun produced a great effect; it whirled about like a top, and
everybody at the windows applauded. Some said:
“It is as pretty as at Tivoli.”
Another exclaimed:
“It is almost as fine as the fireworks we have at our house, in my park,
on my birthday.”
And the old marquis leaned far out of the window, crying:
“Bravo! I am much pleased, my children! You may regale yourselves again
after the fireworks.”
But Monsieur de Grandvilain had hardly ceased speaking when there was a
terrible report, and the old mansion was shaken to its foundation; it
was caused by all the mortars, large and small, exploding at the same
moment, because stout Turlurette, in her alarm, had thrown her
slow-match into the midst of the heavy pieces which were reserved for
the finale.
If the mortars had simply been discharged, nothing worse would have
happened than the premature occurrence of an explosion held in reserve
for the end of the fête; but unfortunately, when they took fire, they
were still covered by the various kitchen implements which the cook had
placed over them as a precautionary measure; and at the same moment that
the sudden report took everybody by surprise, even those who were
managing the fireworks, the frying-pan, the dish-pan, and the saucepan
covers were hurled through the air with terrific force.
Monsieur de Grandvilain, who had just been thanking his servants, had an
ear carried away by the frying-pan, which entered the bedroom and fell
at the foot of his wife’s bed. Several of the guests were struck by
saucepan covers; a pretty woman had four teeth broken, a young dandy who
was leaning over her had his nose split in the middle, which gave him
later the appearance of a Danish dog; and on all sides there was nothing
but shrieks, lamentations and imprecations. Even those who had sustained
no injury shouted louder than the others:
“This is what comes of allowing servants to discharge fireworks. The
cook put all his cooking utensils in the mortars; it is very lucky that
it didn’t occur to him to blow up his ovens.”
The guests had had quite enough; they all took their leave, some to have
their wounds dressed, others to tell of what had taken place at Monsieur
de Grandvilain’s.
During the disaster, Jasmin had received the dish-pan on his head, after
it had made an excursion through the air; and the faithful valet’s face
was covered with burns and bore a striking resemblance to a skimmer.
That did not prevent him from appearing with a piteous air before his
master, who was looking for his ear.
“Monsieur,” said the valet, “I am in despair; I don’t understand how it
all came about--but it wasn’t finished; there is the bouquet to
come--and if you would like----”
The marquis, in a frenzy of rage, raised his cane upon Jasmin, and would
listen to no more; while Madame de Grandvilain half rose in her bed and
said to the poor valet in an imposing voice:
“In my husband’s name, I forbid you henceforth to fire anything of any
sort in our house.”
IV
A NEW WAY OF BRINGING UP CHILDREN
The display of fireworks for little Chérubin’s baptism put an end to all
the festivities at the hôtel de Grandvilain. The marquis succeeded in
finding his ear, but it was impossible to put it in place again, so that
he was obliged to resign himself to the necessity of closing his career
with a single ear, a most disagreeable thing when one has worn two for
seventy years.
Aménaïde had conceived a horror of fireworks, rockets, in fact, of the
slightest explosion; the most trifling noise made her faint; it went so
far that nobody was allowed to uncork a bottle in her presence.
Jasmin continued to wear the aspect of a skimmer, but he soon consoled
himself therefor; the old valet had long since laid aside all pretension
to please the fair sex; the little holes with which his face was riddled
did not interfere with his drinking, and to him that was the principal
point.
Mademoiselle Turlurette had received no wound, and yet she deserved
better than any of the others to be struck by a saucepan cover at least,
for she was the author of all the disasters that had happened in the
house. But no one suspected how the thing took place, and Turlurette
confined herself to expressing the most profound detestation of
fireworks.
And so tranquillity had returned to the hôtel de Grandvilain, where they
received many fewer guests since the last festivity; for the young women
and the dandies feared to lose their teeth, or to have their noses slit.
The marquis was at liberty to devote all his time to the care of his
son, and little Chérubin demanded much care; for he became weak and
sickly and sallow, and at three months he was vastly smaller than when
he came into the world. Turlurette, who had weighed him at that time,
was certain of the fact, and one day she said to Jasmin in an undertone:
“It’s very funny, but madame’s boy is melting away, so that you can see
it! He weighs five ounces less to-day than he did the day he was born!”
Jasmin gave a leap when he heard that his master’s child was melting
away instead of increasing in size, and he said to Turlurette:
“If this goes on, before long he won’t weigh anything at all. You must
tell madame that the little fellow is falling off.”
“Oh, yes! so that madame may torment herself, and so that she won’t be
able to feed her son at all. No indeed, I will take pains not to tell
her.”
“But, mademoiselle, it’s for the child’s good!”
“But I don’t choose to make madame feel badly.”
Jasmin made up his mind like a devoted servant: he went to his master.
Monsieur de Grandvilain was lying on his couch, enveloped in his
morning gown; his head was covered with a jaunty green velvet cap, which
he was careful to place over the ear which he no longer had. For some
time the old marquis had had the habit of moving his jaws, as one does
when one is sucking or eating something, and that constant movement gave
his face the appearance of a nut-cracker. Those persons who were not
aware of this trick of the marquis, waited, before speaking to him, for
him to finish swallowing what he was chewing; but they waited in vain,
for the jaws continued to make the same movement.
Since the occasion of the fireworks, Monsieur de Grandvilain had treated
his valet with less affability. However, Jasmin’s face bore so many
scars that his master could hardly bear him ill-will for an accident of
which he had been the second victim.
“What do you want of me, Jasmin?” said Monsieur de Grandvilain, when he
saw that his valet stood before him with an embarrassed air.
“Monsieur, I hope that you will excuse me for what I am going to say,
but it is my attachment for you and our young marquis that has decided
me to speak.”
“I am aware of your attachment, Jasmin, although the proofs of it which
you have given me have sometimes had unfortunate results.”
As he spoke, Monsieur de Grandvilain scratched the place where his ear
should have been.
“Well, what have you to tell me?”
Jasmin glanced about him, walked closer to his master, and said in a low
voice and with a mysterious air:
“Let me tell you, monsieur, that your son is melting----”
The old man fell back on his couch and gazed anxiously at his servant,
exclaiming:
“Melting! my son! Great heaven! has he fallen into the stove?”
“When I say melting, my dear master, I mean simply falling away, that he
has lost five ounces, neither more nor less, since the day he was born.”
“The devil take you, Jasmin, you gave me a horrible fright! I wonder if
you will never be any less stupid!”
“It was my attachment for you, monsieur, that made me think that I ought
to tell you. Turlurette has weighed our little Chérubin, and she is sure
of what she says. She doesn’t dare to tell madame, but I thought it was
better to tell you; for if the child goes on like this, in a few months
he won’t weigh anything at all.”
Monsieur de Grandvilain sadly shook his head.
“In truth,” he said, “my son is not making any progress. He is taking on
a yellowish color that surprises me, for both his mother and I are very
white. Ah! my poor Jasmin, I am beginning to think that we should have
children when we are young, because then they inherit our strength.”
“Nonsense, monsieur! You are strong enough! You are a perfect horse when
you choose! Our Chérubin was magnificent when he was born, as you must
remember. If he is doing badly now, it’s only because he doesn’t eat
enough. Madame fondles him and pets him--that’s all very well; but
perhaps the little rascal would prefer some wine and a cutlet.”
“A cutlet! Are you mad, Jasmin? Whoever heard of giving cutlets to
children three months old?”
“Perhaps it would be better for them than milk, no one knows. If I was a
nurse, I’d try the experiment.”
“In truth, Jasmin, you recall to my mind the fact that the grandfather
of our good Henri IV gave his son wine to drink a few moments after he
was born; and it did the child no harm; far from it, for Henri IV was a
regular devil in every way. Judging from that, I believe that my son,
who is past three months, might safely swallow a drop of generous wine.”
“Surely, monsieur, wine can never do any harm, and you have such good
wine! Our little Chérubin, instead of turning yellow, will become a very
devil like the great king; and if with that you would venture to let him
suck a cutlet----”
“The wine will be enough, with a little beef juice perhaps. If only
madame la marquise will consent to let the child change his food!”
“Why, look you, monsieur, the little fellow is our son, after all! If
madame doesn’t give him enough to eat, we have the right to do as we
please. Deuce take it! A man doesn’t have a child every day, and if you
should have to try it over again, I think that----”
“Yes, Jasmin, yes, I will be firm. As my heir’s welfare is at stake, I
will show my strength of character.”
And monsieur le marquis, rising from his couch, betook himself to his
wife’s apartment, leaning on the arm of Jasmin, who repeated constantly
on the way:
“Give him wine to drink, monsieur, give him some good strong soups to
eat, and I will bet that within a month he will have recovered his five
ounces!”
Madame de Grandvilain had not dared to confess to her husband that she
had no milk to give their son; she had bought nursing bottles, and when
the marquis was not there, the child was given the bottle; but as soon
as his father arrived, she played nurse again, and little Chérubin was
given a sterile bosom, which supplied him with no nourishment.
When Monsieur de Grandvilain unexpectedly entered madame’s chamber, as
she was not looking for her husband at that moment, she did not have
time to put the bottle out of the way, and Chérubin was still attached
to it.
“What’s this, my dear love?” said monsieur le marquis, scrutinizing what
his son was sucking.
“My dear,” said madame, sorely confused, “it’s a supplement.”
“A supplement! The deuce, my dear love, you use a supplement, and
without letting me know?”
“My dear, there are times when my milk doesn’t flow freely, and we must
not let this dear little fellow suffer on that account.”
“Certainly not, madame, but if you had only confessed to me sooner that
you use a supplement, I, for my part, should not have hesitated to tell
you that I wished to change our son’s diet. He is not making progress,
marchioness, that is evident. I believe that milk is not what he needs.
I am less surprised since I find that it is not yours. In short, I
propose to try another method; I propose to give my son wine to drink.”
“Wine, my dear! Can you think of such a thing! A child of three months!”
“Who was magnificent when he came into the world, and who is visibly
pining away with your bottle. I will give him claret, that is a mild and
generous wine. If that works well, later we will try burgundy.”
“But, monsieur, on the contrary, the very lightest things, ass’s milk,
is what Chérubin needs!”
“Ass’s milk for my son! Fie, madame! I will not listen to such a thing.
Can it be that you would like to make an ass of him? He shall drink
wine.”
“He shall drink milk.”
For the first time the husband and wife quarrelled, and neither of them
would give way.
Monsieur de Grandvilain took his son in his arms, carried him to his
room, ordered Jasmin to bring a bottle of old claret, and gave some
spoonfuls of it to his heir.
The child swallowed the wine without making too wry a face; in a few
moments his little cheeks flushed, and the old valet, who was assisting
his master to pour wine into little Chérubin, exclaimed:
“Look, monsieur le marquis, look! already our son’s color is coming
back! He is better already, and recovering his strength. Oh! what an
excellent idea it was to give him wine! Let us go on, master. He turns
his eyes toward us; I think that he wants some more.”
Monsieur de Grandvilain thought that it was better to be prudent the
first time and not to make the dose too large; so he returned to his
wife and gave her the child, saying:
“Madame, Chérubin is better already; his color has come back and his
eyes shine like diamonds. I shall continue what I have begun to-day, and
you will see that our heir will be the better for it.”
Madame made no reply, but as soon as her husband had left the room, she
called Turlurette and said to her:
“Dear Turlurette, just see what a state they have put this poor little
fellow in! He smells frightfully of wine, and I believe that he is
tipsy!”
“Why, yes, he really is, madame,” cried the stout girl, after smelling
the child. “That old idiot of a Jasmin is responsible for all this; he’s
a sot himself, and he would like to make everybody drink, even a nursing
child. If you take my advice, madame, you will give the child some syrup
of ipecac. That will make him throw up the wine; it will purge him.”
“No, Turlurette, no! I am afraid of doing my son an injury, and of
angering monsieur le marquis. But I am going to give the dear little
fellow some ass’s milk, and that will correct the ill effects of the
wine.”
The ass’s milk was offered to the child in the bottle. Little Chérubin
drank it without objection, for he had an excellent disposition; he
accepted whatever was offered him, so that the important thing was to
offer him what would be good for him.
This system of nourishment was continued for several days. The marquis
gave his son wine to drink and madame gave him ass’s milk. The child was
very red when he left his father’s hands, but he became very pale again
with his mother. They soon discovered that the dear boy was out of
order, and stout Turlurette added the syringe to all the other remedies;
and Jasmin, determined at all risks to fatten the little Grandvilain,
gave him a piece of pie crust, or a slice of sausage, as soon as he was
left alone with him.
Before little Chérubin had been on this diet of ass’s milk, pie crust
and syringes a month, instead of growing fat, he was in a shocking
condition. The marchioness wept, and Monsieur de Grandvilain decided to
send for a doctor. After examining the child and learning all that they
had been doing to nourish him, the doctor exclaimed in a very severe
tone:
“Allow me to inform you that, if you go on like this, in a week you will
not have any child.”
The marchioness sobbed, the marquis turned green, and they both cried in
one breath:
“What must we do, doctor, to restore our child’s health?”
“What must you do? Why give him a nurse, a good nurse, and send him into
the country with her, and leave him there a long while, a very long
while; that’s what you must do, and at once, this very day; you have no
time to waste if you want to preserve the life of this child.”
The tone in which the doctor spoke admitted no reply; luckily their love
for the child was above all self-esteem, so they were fain to agree that
they had done wrong, and to obey in all haste.
The marquis sent all his people in search of a nurse. The marchioness
herself went about among her acquaintances, asking for information and
advice; but the time passed, and those who were well recommended could
not be obtained at once. As evening approached, they had not succeeded
in finding a nurse; the marchioness and her husband embraced their child
and had no idea what to give him, as they dared not continue to feed him
as they had been doing.
Suddenly Jasmin appeared with a fresh, buxom, red-cheeked peasant woman,
exclaiming:
“I have found what we want, I think; if she doesn’t bring our little one
back to life, faith, I will have nothing more to do with it.”
The nurse whom Jasmin had brought had such an attractive face and seemed
to enjoy such excellent health that they were prepossessed in her favor.
Madame de Grandvilain uttered a joyful cry and handed her child to the
peasant woman, who presented her bosom to him; he took it greedily, like
one who had found what he needed.
The marquis tapped Jasmin on the shoulder, saying:
“You are an invaluable fellow! How did you go to work to discover this
excellent nurse?”
“How did I go to work, monsieur? Why, I just went to the office, on Rue
Sainte-Apolline, and asked for a nurse; I saw nurses of all colors, and
I chose this one. That’s all the difficulty there was about it.”
What Jasmin had done was the simplest thing to do, but ordinarily the
simplest thing is what nobody thinks of doing.
Little Chérubin’s nurse was from Gagny, and as the doctor’s orders were
definite, she returned to her village the next morning, carrying with
her a superb layette, money, gifts, strict orders, and her little
nursling.
V
THE VILLAGE OF GAGNY
Gagny is a pretty village near Villemonble, of which it is a sort of
continuation, and is a little nearer Paris than Montfermeil. When I say
that it is a pretty village, I do not mean by that that the streets are
very straight and well paved, and that all the houses have a uniform,
comfortable, or even elegant aspect; in that case, it would resemble a
small provincial town, and would not be the country with its
picturesqueness and its freedom from constraint.
What I like in a village is the mixture of architectural styles, the
very irregularity of the buildings, which is such a pleasant change from
the monotony of the streets of a capital. What I like to see in a
village is the farmhouse and all its outbuildings, the pond in which
ducks are splashing, the dung-heap with the hens pecking about it; and
then the cottage of the well-to-do peasant, who has had his shutters
painted green, and who allows the vines to climb all about the windows;
the thatched roof of a laborer not far from the fine house of a wealthy
bourgeois; the charming villa of one of our Parisian celebrities; the
humble dwelling of the market gardener; the schoolhouse, the church and
its belfry; and in the midst of all these, tall trees, paths bordered by
hedges of elderberry or wild fruit; hens and roosters strutting
fearlessly before the house; ruddy-cheeked, merry, healthy children
playing in the middle of the streets or squares, with nothing to fear
from carriages and omnibuses; and even the odor of the cow barn, when I
pass by a dairyman’s place; because all these remind you that you are
really in the country; and when you truly love the country, you have a
sense of well-being, a feeling of happiness, the effects of which you at
once realize without any need to try to explain them--effects which you
owe to the pure air which you breathe, to the rustic scenes which rest
your eyes, and to the pleasant freedom which you enjoy!
Gagny offers you all these things. Situated as it is near Raincy, the
forest of Bondy, and the lovely woods of Montfermeil, and only a short
distance from the Marne, whose banks are delightful, especially near
Nogent and Gournay,--in whichever direction you turn your steps when you
leave the village, you find charming walks and beautiful views. The
neighborhood is embellished by some lovely estates: Maison Rouge, Maison
Blanche, and the pretty little château of L’Horloge, flanked by towers
and battlements, which represents in miniature--but in a highly
flattered miniature--the abodes of the ancient feudal lords. Such is the
village of Gagny, which sees every day one more beautiful and
comfortable house built in its neighborhood, where, during the summer,
charming women from Paris, artists, scholars or tradesmen, come to seek
repose from the constant activity of the capital.
I observe that I have been describing Gagny as it is to-day, whereas it
was in the year 1819 that little Chérubin, son of the Marquis de
Grandvilain, was taken there. But after all, the aspect of the village
has not changed, except for some fine houses which did not then exist,
but which are universally admired to-day.
Let us make the acquaintance first of all of the villagers to whose
house our hero was taken.
You know that the nurse who had carried Chérubin away was a buxom
peasant with a fresh round face, and a solid figure, whose corsets
indicated a sufficient supply of food for four marquises and as many
plebeians; but what you do not know is that her name was Nicole
Frimousset, that she was twenty-eight years old, and had three little
boys, and a husband who drove her to despair, although he was a model of
obedience and submission to her will.
Jacquinot Frimousset was of the same age as his wife; he was a stout,
well-built fellow, with broad shoulders and a sturdy, shapely leg; his
round red face, his heavy eyebrows, his bright black eyes, his white,
even teeth would have done credit to a gentleman from the city.
Frimousset was a handsome youth, and seemed to give promise of becoming
a husband capable of fulfilling all the duties which marriage imposes.
Peasant women are not insensible to physical advantages; indeed it is
said that there are ladies--very great ladies--who attach much value to
such bagatelles.
Nicole, who had some property, and a dowry of goodly proportion, could
not lack aspirants; she selected Jacquinot Frimousset, and all the women
in the village exclaimed that Nicole was not squeamish; which meant
doubtless that they too would have been glad to marry Frimousset. But
there is an old proverb which declares that appearances are deceitful.
There are many people who do not choose to believe in proverbs! Those
people make a great mistake. Erasmus said:
“Of all forms of knowledge, there is none older than that of proverbs;
they were like so many symbols which formed the philosophical code of
the early ages; they are the compendium of human verities.”
Aristotle agreed with Erasmus; he thought that proverbs were the remains
of the old philosophy destroyed by the wearing effect of time; and that,
these sentences having been preserved by reason of their conciseness,
far from disdaining them, we should reflect upon them with care, and
search after their meaning.
Chrysippus and Cleanthes wrote at great length in favor of proverbs.
Theophrastus composed a whole volume upon that subject. Among the famous
men who have discussed it are Aristides and Clearchus, disciples of
Aristotle; and Pythagoras wrote symbols which Erasmus ranks with
proverbs; and Plutarch, in his _Apothegms_, collected the wise remarks
of the Greeks.
We might proceed to cite all the authors of modern times who have
written in favor of proverbs, but that would carry us too far, and we
fancy that you will prefer to return to Chérubin’s nurse.
Nicole had never heard of Erasmus, or of Aristotle; we have met people
in the city who have no knowledge concerning those philosophers, and are
none the worse off for that. As a general rule, we should not carry the
study of antiquity too far; what we know about the past often prevents
us from being well informed concerning what is going on to-day.
Nicole soon perceived that when she married Jacquinot she did not
feather her nest very well. The handsome peasant was lazy, careless; in
short, a do-nothing in every sense of the term. Three days after her
marriage, Nicole sighed when she was congratulated upon her choice.
But Frimousset had that rustic cunning which knows how to disguise its
inclinations, its faults, beneath an air of good-humor and frankness
which deceives many people. His wife was lively, active, hard-working;
it required very little time for him to learn her character. Far from
thwarting her in anything, Frimousset seemed to be the most docile, the
most compliant husband in the village; but he carried his servility to a
point which finally irritated Nicole, and that was the very thing he
counted upon.
For instance, in the morning, while his wife was attending to the
housework, Jacquinot, after eating a hearty breakfast, would say to her:
“What do you want me to do now, Nicole?”
And Nicole would reply quickly:
“It seems to me that there’s work enough to do! There’s our field to
plow, and the stones and stumps to be taken out of the piece by the
road, and the garden to be planted. Ain’t that work enough?”
“Yes, yes!” Frimousset would reply, shaking his head; “I know well
enough that it ain’t work that’s lacking; but where shall I begin--in
the field, or the pasture, or the garden? I am waiting for you to tell
me; you know very well that I want to do just what you want me to.”
“My word! what nonsense! Don’t you know enough to know what there’s most
hurry about?”
“Why no! Don’t I tell you that I want you to give me orders as to what I
shall do; I want to do my best to please you, my little wife.”
“Do whatever you want to, and let me alone.”