Volume 19 / Part 1 — 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.”

Frimousset would ask no further questions; when by dint of being submissive he had irritated his wife, she never failed to say: “Do whatever you please and let me alone.” Thereupon Nicole’s husband would go off to the wine-shop and pass the day there. Nicole would look in vain for him in the pasture and the garden, and at night, when he came home to supper she would ask:

“Where on earth have you been working? I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

And Jacquinot would reply in a cajoling tone:

“Faith, you wouldn’t tell me what work to begin on, and I was afraid of doing something wrong; I didn’t want to do anything without your orders.”

With a man of Frimousset’s stamp, comfort, when it exists, soon gives place to straitened circumstances, and then to poverty; among the small as among the great, there is no fortune which is large enough to withstand disorder. After five years of married life, Nicole was obliged to sell her field and her pasture, all because Monsieur Jacquinot never knew where to begin when it was a question of working.

Meanwhile Nicole had seen her family increased by three small boys, healthy boys with excellent appetites. Three children more and several pieces of land less could not bring comfort to Frimousset’s home. Then it was that Nicole conceived the idea of becoming a nurse; and as the peasant was as active and determined as her husband was lazy and shiftless, her plan was soon carried out.

And that was why Jasmin, when he went to Rue Sainte-Apolline, to the Nurses’ Bureau, had found the peasant from Gagny, whom he had selected because of her pleasant face, and whom he had carried in triumph to his master, the Marquis de Grandvilain.

Nicole was an excellent woman, and she became sincerely attached to the child that was placed in her charge; she took him as soon as he cried, and was never weary of giving him the breast and of dancing him in her arms; she took care too that he should always be neat and clean. But the peasant woman was a mother too; she had three gas—that is what she called them,—and despite all her affection for her nursling, it was to her gas that Nicole gave the sweetmeats, the preserves, the biscuit and the gingerbread of which Madame la Marquise de Grandvilain had not failed to give her an abundant supply, urging her not to spare them, never to deny Chérubin anything, and to send to her for other delicacies when those should be exhausted.

Luckily for Chérubin, Nicole did not follow to the letter the instructions that were given her. As one is a mother before being a nurse, the peasant woman necessarily had more affection for her children than for her foster-child. She gave milk to the latter, while the others stuffed themselves with dainties, candy and gingerbread, which soon upset their health, whereas, on the contrary, little Grandvilain became fresh and rosy and plump and hearty.

The coming of the nursling placed the Frimousset household upon its feet once more. Nicole had asked for thirty francs a month, but the marquis had said to her:

“Just let my son get well, let him recover his health, and I will give you twice that!”

And Jacquinot, who had more time than ever to idle away and to spend in the wine-shop, because his wife, being occupied with her nursling, could not keep an eye upon him, exclaimed every day:

“My eye, Nicole, that was a mighty good idea of yours to be a nurse! If you only had three or four little brats like this, we should be mighty well off, I tell you!”

And Chérubin’s little foster-brothers, who did nothing but eat sweetmeats and gingerbread, were also delighted that their mother had a nursling who provided them with so many good things, thanks to which they were constantly ill.

Chérubin had been at his nurse’s house only six weeks, when, on a fine day in autumn, a fashionable carriage stopped on the public square of Gagny, which square is not absolutely beautiful, although the guardhouse has been built there.

A vehicle which does not resemble a cart is always an object of wonderment in a village. Five or six women, several old men, several peasants, and a multitude of children assembled about the carriage, and were gazing at it with curiosity, when a window was lowered and a man’s head appeared.

Instantly a low murmur and a sneering laugh or two were heard among the bystanders, together with such remarks as these, not all of which were uttered in undertones:

“Oh! how ugly he is!”—”Oh! what a face!”—”Is it legal to be as ugly as that, when you have a carriage?”—”Upon my word! I’d rather go afoot!”—”That fellow hasn’t been vaccinated!”

There were other reflections of the same sort, which might have reached the ears of him who suggested them, and which it would have been more polite to make in a low tone; but politeness is not the favorite virtue of the peasants of the suburbs of Paris.

Luckily, the man who had put his head out of the window was a little hard of hearing, and, besides, he was not a man to lose his temper for such trifles; on the contrary, assuming a smiling expression, he said, bowing to the assemblage:

“Which of you, my good people, can direct me to Nicole Frimousset’s house? I know well enough that it’s on a street leading into the square, but that is all I know.”

“Nicole Frimousset!” said a peasant about half seas over, who had just come from one wine-shop and was about to enter another; “she’s my wife, Nicole is; I am Jacquinot Frimousset, her husband; what do you want of my wife?”

“What do we want of her? Parbleu! we’ve come to see the little one that we’ve placed in her charge, and to find out how he is, the dear child.”

“The deuce! it’s monsieur le marquis!” cried Jacquinot, removing his hat and throwing several children to the ground in order to reach the carriage more quickly. “Excuse me, monsieur le marquis; you see, I didn’t know you. I’ll show you the way; that’s our street over there; it’s up hill, but you’ve got good horses.”

And Jacquinot ran ahead of the carriage, shouting at the top of his lungs, and trying to dance.

“Here’s little Chérubin’s father! Here’s the Marquis de Grandvilain, coming to our house! Ah! I’m going to drink his health.”

The man who was in the carriage answered:

“No, I am not the marquis, I am Jasmin, his first valet; and mademoiselle who is with me is not madame la marquise; she is Turlurette, her maid. But it’s all the same, our masters or us, it’s absolutely the same thing.”

“What a stupid thing to say, Jasmin,” said Turlurette, nudging her companion; “the idea! our masters or us being the same thing!”

“I mean so far as the child we have come to see is concerned. They have sent us to find out about his health; can’t we see that as well as our masters? And even better, for we have better eyes than they have.”

“You speak of your masters with very little respect, Monsieur Jasmin.”

“Mademoiselle, I respect and venerate them, but that doesn’t prevent me from saying that they are both of them in a miserable state. What wretched carcasses! They make me feel very sad!”

“Hush, Monsieur Jasmin, here we are!”

The carriage had stopped in front of Frimousset’s house, and Jacquinot’s shouts had put the whole household in commotion.

“Those are Chérubin’s parents,” was heard in every direction. The little boys rushed to meet the carriage; Jacquinot went to draw wine to offer to his guests; while Nicole, after hastily washing her nursling and wiping his nose, took him in her arms and presented him to Jasmin and Turlurette, just as they alighted from the carriage, and called out to them:

“Here he is, monsieur and madame; take him, and see how well he is! Ah! I flatter myself that he wasn’t as pretty as that when you gave him to me!”

“True; he’s superb!” said Jasmin, kissing the child.

“Yes, he is as well as can be!” said Turlurette, turning little Chérubin over and over in every direction.

But while they admired her nursling, Nicole, who had had time to recover herself, looked closely at Jasmin and Turlurette, and then exclaimed:

“But I say, it seems to me that monsieur and madame ain’t the child’s father and mother. Pardi! I recognize monsieur by his red nose and his peppered face; he’s the one who came to the bureau and picked me out.”

“Yes, nurse, you are not mistaken,” replied Jasmin, “I am not my master; I mean that I am not the marquis, and that is what I shouted to your husband, but he didn’t listen. But that doesn’t make any difference; we were sent here, Turlurette and I, to satisfy ourselves about young Grandvilain’s health, and to report to monsieur le marquis and his wife.”

“You will always be welcome,” said Nicole.

“And then you won’t refuse to taste our wine and refresh yourselves,” cried Jacquinot, bringing a huge jar, full to the brim of a wine perfectly nif, which means new in the language of the country people.

“I never refuse to taste any wine, and I am always glad to refresh myself, even when I am not warm,” replied Jasmin. “But first of all, I must fulfil to the letter my dear master’s orders. Nurse, undress the child, if you please, and let me see him all naked, so that I can judge if he is in good condition from top to toe—inclusively.”

“Oh, bless my soul! drink and let us alone! That is my business!” said Mademoiselle Turlurette, still keeping the child in her arms.

“Mademoiselle, I will not prevent you from looking at the child too, but I know what my master ordered me to do, and I propose to obey him. Give me Chérubin, and let me make a little Cupid of him.”

“I won’t give him to you.”

“Then I’ll take him!”

“Come and try it!”

Jasmin leaped upon the child, but Turlurette would not let him go, and each of them pulled him; Chérubin shrieked, and the nurse, to put an end to this imitation of the judgment of Solomon, adroitly took the child from both of them. In the twinkling of an eye she undressed him, and, handing him to the two servants, bade them kiss her nursling’s plump little posterior.

“There! what do you think of him?” she cried; “ain’t he fine? You’d like to be as fresh and plump as that, wouldn’t you?—but I wish you may get it!”

The nurse’s action restored general good-humor and peace between the servants of the house of Grandvilain. Turlurette did not tire of kissing her master’s child. As for Jasmin, he took a huge pinch of snuff, then seated himself at a table, and said:

“Yes, yes, everything is all right; we have a superb scion. And now, let us taste your wine, foster-father.”

Jacquinot made haste to fill the glasses, drink, and fill again; and Jasmin was as well pleased with the foster-father as with the nurse.

“But why did not monsieur le marquis and madame come themselves?” asked Nicole.

“Oh!” Turlurette replied with a sigh, “my poor mistress isn’t very well; when she tried to nurse the child, she didn’t get along well, and now that she’s given it up, she’s worse than ever!”

“But I offered to take our Chérubin’s place, in order to relieve my excellent mistress!” murmured Jasmin, tossing off a great bumper of sour wine.

“Mon Dieu! Monsieur Jasmin, you’re forever saying stupid things,” said Turlurette; “the idea of madame feeding you.”

“Why not, when it was the doctor’s orders? I once knew a lady who nursed several cats and two rabbits, because she had too much milk.”

“Oh! we’ve had enough of your stories!—In short, my mistress is very weak; she can’t leave her room, or else she’d have come long ago to see her dear child; she talks about him all the time.”

“As for monsieur le marquis,” said Jasmin, “he has the gout in his heels, which makes it very hard for him to walk. I suggested a way to do it, and that was to walk on his toes and not touch his heels to the ground; he tried it, but after taking a few steps that way, patatras! he fell flat on the floor, and he has never been willing to try again. But they sent us in their place, and never fear, we will make a good report of what we have seen. You have restored our son’s life! You are excellent people! Here’s your health, foster-father; your wine scrapes the palate, but it isn’t unpleasant, and it has a taste of claret.”

While Jasmin drank and chattered, Turlurette went to the carriage to fetch what her mistress had sent to the nurse. There were presents of all sorts: sugar, coffee, clothes, and even toys for Chérubin’s foster-brothers. The room in which the peasants usually sat would hardly hold all that came out of the carriage. The little Frimoussets jumped and shouted for joy, and rolled on the floor, at sight of all those presents, and Nicole said again and again:

“Madame la marquise is very kind! but she can be sure that her son will eat all these nice things; my gas won’t touch ‘em! Besides, they prefer pork.”

Jasmin enjoyed himself exceedingly with Jacquinot, and Turlurette was finally obliged to remind him that their masters were impatiently awaiting their return. The domestics bade the villagers farewell. They kissed little Chérubin again, but on the face this time, and returned to their master’s carriage, which quickly took them back to Paris.

The marchioness awaited the return of her servants with the anxiety of a mother who fears for the life of the only child that Heaven has granted her. And despite his gout, Monsieur de Grandvilain dragged himself to the window from time to time, to see if he could discover his carriage in the distance.

Turlurette, who was young and active, ran ahead of Jasmin and entered the room with a radiant air; her face announced that she brought good news.

“Magnificent, madame! magnificent health! A superb child! Oh! no one would ever know him; he was so pale and thin when he went away, and now he’s as fat and solid as a rock.”

“Really, Turlurette,” cried the marchioness; “you are not deceiving us?”

“Oh! just ask Jasmin, madame; here he comes.”

Jasmin appeared, puffing like an ox, because he had tried to go upstairs as quickly as Turlurette. He walked forward, bowed gravely to his masters and said:

“Our young marquis is in a most flourishing condition; I had the honor to kiss his posterior; I ask your pardon for taking that liberty, but he is such a lovely child and so well kept! I assure you that the Frimousset family is worthy of our confidence, and that we have only praise to give the nurse and her husband.”

These words filled the atmosphere of the hôtel de Grandvilain with joy. Chérubin’s mamma promised herself that she would go to Gagny to see her son as soon as her health was restored, and Monsieur le Marquis de Grandvilain swore that he would do the same as soon as the gout should be obliging enough to leave his heels.

VI TIME AND ITS EFFECTS

The old marquis and his wife were very happy when they knew that their son was in good health; they forgot that their own health was poor, and they made great plans for the future.

There is an old song that says:

All of which is very true; and it means that we must never rely upon the morrow; but that does not prevent us from often making plans in which we stride over a great number of years, which is much more than a morrow! And most of those same plans are destined never to be executed. We are wise to make them, however, for in them consists the better part of our happiness; what we actually have in hand never seems so sweet as what we expect; it is with that as with those landscapes which seem charming to us at a distance, but very commonplace when we come close to them.

A month after receiving the assurance that her son was well, and that he had entirely recovered his health, Aménaïde, feeling somewhat better, determined to go out and take the air, in order that she might sooner be in a condition to go to Gagny. But whether it was that she went out too soon, or that a new disease declared itself, the marchioness was feeling wretched when she returned; she went back to bed, and a fortnight later little Chérubin’s mother was laid in her grave. However, she had not realized that she was dying, and up to the last moment had retained the hope of going to embrace her son.

The old marquis was in despair at his loss; but at seventy years a man no longer loves as at thirty; as it grows old, the heart becomes less loving, and that is the effect of experience no less than of years; men are so deceived in their affections during the course of their lives, that they inevitably end by becoming selfish and by concentrating upon themselves the affection which they once offered to others.

Moreover, the marquis was not left alone on earth; had he not his son to comfort him? His faithful retainer said to him one day:

“My dear master, think of your little Chérubin; he has no mother now; you certainly ought to have died before her, for you were much older, but things don’t always go as one expects! Madame la marquise is dead and you are alive; to be sure, you have the gout, but there are people whom it doesn’t carry away at once; you are a proof of it. Be a man, monsieur le marquis, and remember your son, of whom you will make a lusty blade, such as you used to be; for you were a famous young rake, monsieur, although no one would suspect it to look at you now.”

“What do you mean, Jasmin? Am I very much changed? Do I look as if I were impotent now?”

“I don’t say that, monsieur, but I do think that you would find it difficult to keep five or six appointments in the same day; and that is what often happened in the old days! Ah! what a lady-killer you were! Well, I have an idea that your son will take after you, that he too will send me with billets-doux. Ha! ha! I will carry them with great pleasure; I know all about slipping notes into ladies’ hands.”

“In other words, my poor fellow, you were forever making mistakes and blunders, and it wasn’t your fault that I wasn’t surprised and murdered a hundred times by jealous husbands or rivals.”

“Do you think so, monsieur? Oh! you are mistaken; it was so long ago that you have forgotten all about it.”

“After all,” rejoined Monsieur de Grandvilain, after a moment, “even if I should weep for the poor marchioness all the time, that would not bring her back to me. I must preserve myself for my son. Ah! only let me see him when he is twenty years old! That is all I ask.”

“The deuce! I should say so! You are not modest!” said Jasmin; “twenty added to the seventy you are now, would make you ninety!”

“Well, Jasmin, don’t men ever live to that age?”

“Oh! very seldom; but it may happen.”

“How old are you, you rascal, to venture to make such remarks?”

“Why, monsieur, I am fifty,” replied Jasmin, straightening himself up and putting out his leg.

“Hum! I believe that you take off something; you look much older than that. But no matter, I will bury ten like you!”

“Monsieur is at liberty to do so, certainly.”

“And as soon as my gout has left me, I will go and embrace my heir. Of course I could send for the nurse to come here; but the doctor says that children mustn’t have change of air; and I would rather deprive myself of seeing mine than expose him to the danger of being sick again.”

“Besides, monsieur, whenever you want me to go to see our young man, you know that I am always ready; and there’s no need of sending that fat Turlurette with me; I know how to tell whether the child is well. I will go to Gagny every day if you want; it doesn’t tire me a bit.”

Jasmin was very fond of going to see Chérubin; in the first place, the faithful retainer was already devotedly attached to his master’s son; and in the second place, he always emptied several jars of wine with the foster-father, who also had become his friend. The marchioness had been dead five months, when Monsieur de Grandvilain at last got relief from his gout and was able to leave his great easy-chair. His first thought was to order the horses to be harnessed to his carriage; then he climbed in, Jasmin scrambling up behind, and they started for Gagny.

Little Chérubin continued in excellent health, because it was not he who had the delicacies that Turlurette continued to send to Nicole. One of the nurse’s little boys had already died of inflammation of the bowels; the other two, who were larger and stronger, still held out against the biscuits and sweetmeats; but their complexions were sallow, while Chérubin’s glowed with health and freshness.

On the day when the marquis started for Gagny, Jacquinot Frimousset had begun his visits to the wine-shop in the morning, and he was already quite drunk when one of his friends informed him that the Marquis de Grandvilain’s carriage was in front of his door.

“Good!” said Jacquinot, “it’s my friend Monsieur Jasmin come to see us. He ain’t a bit proud, although he’s a valet de chambre in a noble family; we’ll empty a few jugs together.”

And the nurse’s husband succeeded, although staggering and stumbling at every step, in reaching his own house; he entered the room where Monsieur de Grandvilain was at that moment occupied in dandling his son, who was then a year old; and who seemed much amused by his dear father’s chin, which did not remain at rest for an instant.

“Who’s that old codger?” cried Frimousset, trying to open his eyes and leaning against the wall.

“It’s Monsieur le Marquis de Grandvilain himself,” cried Nicole, making signs to her husband to assume a more respectful attitude; but he roared with laughter, and said:

“That, Chérubin’s father? Nonsense! Impossible! It’s his grandfather, his great grandfather at least! As if a shrivelled and shrunken old fellow like that could have such young children!”