which surely cannot take wing!
Such is the autopsy of all those brilliant marriages that conduct their
processions of dancers and eaters, in white gloves, flowering at the
button-hole, with bouquets of orange flowers, furbelows, veils, coaches
and coach-drivers, from the magistrate’s to the church, from the church
to the banquet, from the banquet to the dance, from the dance to the
nuptial chamber, to the music of the orchestra and the accompaniment of
the immemorial pleasantries uttered by relics of dandies, for are there
not, here and there in society, relics of dandies, as there are relics
of English horses? To be sure, and such is the osteology of the most
amorous intent.
The majority of the relatives have had a word to say about this
marriage.
Those on the side of the bridegroom:
“Adolphe has made a good thing of it.”
Those on the side of the bride:
“Caroline has made a splendid match. Adolphe is an only son, and will
have an income of sixty thousand, _some day or other_!”
Some time afterwards, the happy judge, the happy engineer, the happy
captain, the happy lawyer, the happy only son of a rich landed
proprietor, in short Adolphe, comes to dine with you, accompanied by
his family.
Your daughter Caroline is exceedingly proud of the somewhat rounded
form of her waist. All women display an innocent artfulness, the first
time they find themselves facing motherhood. Like a soldier who makes a
brilliant toilet for his first battle, they love to play the pale, the
suffering; they rise in a certain manner, and walk with the prettiest
affectation. While yet flowers, they bear a fruit; they enjoy their
maternity by anticipation. All those little ways are exceedingly
charming—the first time.
Your wife, now the mother-in-law of Adolphe, subjects herself to the
pressure of tight corsets. When her daughter laughs, she weeps; when
Caroline wishes her happiness public, she tries to conceal hers. After
dinner, the discerning eye of the co-mother-in-law divines the work of
darkness.
Your wife also is an expectant mother! The news spreads like lightning,
and your oldest college friend says to you laughingly: “Ah! so you are
trying to increase the population again!”
You have some hope in a consultation that is to take place to-morrow.
You, kind-hearted man that you are, you turn red, you hope it is merely
the dropsy; but the doctors confirm the arrival of a _little last one_!
In such circumstances some timorous husbands go to the country or make
a journey to Italy. In short, a strange confusion reigns in your
household; both you and your wife are in a false position.
“Why, you old rogue, you, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” says a
friend to you on the Boulevard.
“Well! do as much if you can,” is your angry retort.
“It’s as bad as being robbed on the highway!” says your son-in-law’s
family. “Robbed on the highway” is a flattering expression for the
mother-in-law.
The family hopes that the child which divides the expected fortune in
three parts, will be, like all old men’s children, scrofulous, feeble,
an abortion. Will it be likely to live? The family awaits the delivery
of your wife with an anxiety like that which agitated the house of
Orleans during the confinement of the Duchess de Berri: a second son
would secure the throne to the younger branch without the onerous
conditions of July; Henry V would easily seize the crown. From that
moment the house of Orleans was obliged to play double or quits: the
event gave them the game.
The mother and the daughter are put to bed nine days apart.
Caroline’s first child is a pale, cadaverous little girl that will not
live.
Her mother’s last child is a splendid boy, weighing twelve pounds, with
two teeth and luxuriant hair.
For sixteen years you have desired a son. This conjugal annoyance is
the only one that makes you beside yourself with joy. For your
rejuvenated wife has attained what must be called the _Indian Summer_
of women; she nurses, she has a full breast of milk! Her complexion is
fresh, her color is pure pink and white. In her forty-second year, she
affects the young woman, buys little baby stockings, walks about
followed by a nurse, embroiders caps and tries on the cunningest
headdresses. Alexandrine has resolved to instruct her daughter by her
example; she is delightful and happy. And yet this is a trouble, a
petty one for you, a serious one for your son-in-law. This annoyance is
of the two sexes, it is common to you and your wife. In short, in this
instance, your paternity renders you all the more proud from the fact
that it is incontestable, my dear sir!