The Project Gutenberg Etext of MM. and Bebe, by Gustave Droz, v3 #12 in our series The French Immortals Crowned by the French Academy #3 in our series by Gustave Droz
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Title: Monsieur, Madame and Bebe, v3
Author: Gustave Droz
Release Date: April, 2003 [Etext #3925]
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[The actual date this file first posted = 08/26/01]
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Language: English
The Project Gutenberg Etext of MM. and Bebe, v3, by Gustave Droz
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MONSIEUR, MADAME AND BEBE
By GUSTAVE DROZ
BOOK 3.
CHAPTER XX
THE HOT-WATER BOTTLE
When midnight strikes, when the embers die away into ashes, when the lamp burns more feebly and your eyes close in spite of yourself, the best thing to do, dear Madame, is to go to bed.
Get up from your armchair, take off your bracelets, light your rosecolored taper, and proceed slowly, to the soft accompaniment of your trailing skirt, rustling across the carpet, to your dressing-room, that perfumed sanctuary in which your beauty, knowing itself to be alone, raises its veils, indulges in self-examination, revels in itself and reckons up its treasures as a miser does his wealth.
Before the muslin-framed mirror, which reveals all that it sees so well, you pause carelessly and with a smile give one long satisfied look, then with two fingers you withdraw the pin that kept up your hair, and its long, fair tresses unroll and fall in waves, veiling your bare shoulders. With a coquettish hand, the little finger of which is turned up, you caress, as you gather them together, the golden flood of your abundant locks, while with the other you pass through them the tortoiseshell comb that buries itself in the depths of this fair forest and bends with the effort.
Your tresses are so abundant that your little hand can scarcely grasp them. They are so long that your outstretched arm scarcely reaches their extremity. Hence it is not without difficulty that you manage to twist them up and imprison them in your embroidered night-cap.
This first duty accomplished, you turn the silver tap, and the pure and limpid water pours into a large bowl of enamelled porcelain. You throw in a few drops of that fluid which perfumes and softens the skin, and like a nymph in the depths of a quiet wood preparing for the toilet, you remove the drapery that might encumber you.
But what, Madame, you frown? Have I said too much or not enough? Is it not well known that you love cold water; and do you think it is not guessed that at the contact of the dripping sponge you quiver from head to foot?
But what matters it, your toilette for the night is completed, you are fresh, restored, and white as a nun in your embroidered dressing-gown, you dart your bare feet into satin slippers and reenter your bedroom, shivering slightly. To see you walking thus with hurried steps, wrapped tightly in your dressing-gown, and with your pretty head hidden in its nightcap, you might be taken for a little girl leaving the confessional after confessing some terrible sin.
Gaining the bedside, Madame lays aside her slippers, and lightly and without effort, bounds into the depths of the alcove.
However, Monsieur, who was already asleep with his nose on the Moniteur, suddenly wakes up at the movement imparted to the bed.
"I thought that you were in bed already, dear," he murmurs, falling off to sleep again. "Good-night."
"If I had been in bed you would have noticed it." Madame stretches out her feet and moves them about; she seems to be in quest of something. "I am not in such a hurry to go to sleep as you are, thank goodness."
Monsieur, suddenly and evidently annoyed, says: "But what is the matter, my dear? You fidget and fidget—I want to sleep." He turns over as he speaks.
"I fidget! I am simply feeling for my hot-water bottle; you are irritating."
"Your hot-water bottle?" is Monsieur's reply, with a grunt.
"Certainly, my hot-water bottle, my feet are frozen." She goes on feeling for it. "You are really very amiable this evening; you began by dozing over the 'Revue des Deux Mondes', and I find you snoring over the 'Moniteur'. In your place I should vary my literature. I am sure you have taken my hot-water bottle."
"I have been doing wrong. I will subscribe to the 'Tintamarre' in future. Come, good-night, my dear." He turns over. "Hello, your hot- water bottle is right at the bottom of the bed; I can feel it with the tips of my toes."
"Well, push it up; do you think that I can dive down there after it?"
"Shall I ring for your maid to help you?" He makes a movement of ill- temper, pulls the clothes up to his chin, and buries his head in the pillow. "Goodnight, my dear."
Madame, somewhat vexed, says: "Good-night, goodnight."
The respiration of Monsieur grows smooth, and even his brows relax, his forehead becomes calm, he is on the point of losing all consciousness of the realities of this life.
Madame taps lightly on her husband's shoulder.
"Hum," growls Monsieur.
Madame taps again.
"Well, what is it?"
Madame, in an angelic tone of voice, "My dear, would you put out the candle?"
Monsieur, without opening his eyes, "The hot-water bottle, the candle, the candle, the hot-water bottle."
"Good heavens! how irritable you are, Oscar. I will put it out myself. Don't trouble yourself. You really have a very bad temper, my dear; you are angry, and if you were goaded a little, you would, in five minutes, be capable of anything."
Monsieur, his voice smothered in the pillow, "No, not at all; I am sleepy, dear, that is all. Good-night, my dear."
Madame, briskly, "You forget that in domestic life good feeling has for its basis reciprocal consideration."
"I was wrong—come, good-night." He raises himself up a little. "Would you like me to kiss you?"
"I don't want you to, but I permit." She puts her face toward that of her husband, who kisses her on the forehead. "You are really too good, you have kissed my nightcap."
Monsieur, smiling, "Your hair smells very nice . . . You see I am so sleepy. Ah! you have it in little plaits, you are going to wave it to-morrow."
"To wave it. You were the first to find that that way of dressing it became me, besides, it is the fashion, and tomorrow is my reception day. Come, you irritable man, embrace me once for all and snore at your ease, you are dying to do so."
She holds her neck toward her husband.
Monsieur, laughing, "In the first place, I never snore. I never joke."
He kisses his wife's neck, and rests his head on her shoulder.
"Well, what are you doing there?" is her remark.
"I am digesting my kiss."
Madame affects the lackadaisical, and looks sidewise at her husband with an eye half disarmed. Monsieur sniffs the loved perfume with open nostrils.
After a period of silence he whispers in his
"Oh, thanks, put out the light and let us go to sleep; I am quite tired out."
She turns round by resting her arm on his face.
"No, no, I won't have you go to sleep with your feet chilled; there is nothing worse. There, there is the hot-water bottle, warm your poor little feet . . . there . . . like that."
"Thanks, I am very comfortable. Good-night, dear, let us go to sleep."
"Good-night, my dear."
After a long silence Monsieur turns first on one side and then on the other, and ends by tapping lightly on his wife's shoulder.
Madame, startled, "What is the matter? Good heavens! how you startled me!"
Monsieur, smiling, "Would you be kind enough to put out the candle?"
"What! is it for that you wake me up in the middle of my sleep? I shall not be able to doze again. You are unbearable."
"You find me unbearable?" He comes quite close to his wife; "Come, let me explain my idea to you."
Madame turns round—her eye meets the eye . . . full of softness . . of her husband. "Dear me," she says, "you are a perfect tiger."
Then, putting her mouth to his ear, she murmurs with a smile, "Come, explain your idea, for the sake of peace and quiet."
Madame, after a very long silence, and half asleep, "Oscar!"
Monsieur, his eyes closed, in a faint voice, "My dear."
"How about the candle? it is still alight."
"Ah! the candle. I will put it out. If you were very nice you would give me a share of your hot-water bottle; one of my feet is frozen. Good-night."
"Good-night."
They clasp hands and fall asleep.
CHAPTER XXI
A LONGING
MONSIEUR and MADAME are quietly sitting together—The clock has just struck ten—MONSIEUR is in his dressing-gown and slippers, is leaning back in an armchair and reading the newspaper—MADAME is carelessly working squares of laces.
Madame—Such things have taken place, have they not, dear?
Monsieur—(without raising his eyes)—Yes, my dear.
Madame—There, well I should never have believed it. But they are monstrous, are they not?
Monsieur—(without raising his eyes)—Yes, my dear.
Madame—Well, and yet, see how strange it is, Louise acknowledged it to me last month, you know; the evening she called for me to go to the perpetual Adoration, and our hour of adoration, as it turned out, by the way, was from six to seven; impossible, too, to change our turn; none of the ladies caring to adore during dinner-time, as is natural enough. Good heavens, what a rage we were in! How good God must be to have forgiven you. Do you remember?
Monsieur—(continuing to read)—Yes, dear.
Madame—Ah! you remember that you said, 'I don't care a . . .' Oh! but I won't repeat what you said, it is too naughty. How angry you were! 'I will go and dine at the restaurant, confound it!' But you did not say confound, ha! ha! ha! Well, I loved you just the same at that moment; it vexed me to see you in a rage on God's account, but for my own part I was pleased; I like to see you in a fury; your nostrils expand, and then your moustache bristles, you put me in mind of a lion, and I have always liked lions. When I was quite a child at the Zoological Gardens they could not get me away from them; I threw all my sous into their cage for them to buy gingerbread with; it was quite a passion. Well, to continue my story. (She looks toward her husband who is still reading, and after a pause,) Is it interesting-that which you are reading?
Monsieur—(like a man waking up)—What is it, my dear child? What I am reading? Oh, it would scarcely interest you. (With a grimace.) There are Latin phrases, you know, and, besides, I am hoarse. But I am listening, go, on. (He resumes his newspaper.)
Madame—Well, to return to the perpetual Adoration, Louise confided to me, under the pledge of secrecy, that she was like me.
Monsieur—Like you? What do you mean?
Madame—Like me; that is plain enough.
Monsieur—You are talking nonsense, my little angel, follies as great as your chignon. You women will end by putting pillows into your chignons.
Madame—(resting her elbows on her husband's knees)—But, after all, the instincts, the resemblances we have, must certainly be attributed to something. Can any one imagine, for instance, that God made your cousin as stupid as he is, and with a head like a pear?
Monsieur—My cousin! my cousin! Ferdinand is only a cousin by marriage.
I grant, however, that he is not very bright.
Madame—Well, I am sure that his mother must have had a longing, or something.
Monsieur—What can I do to help it, my angel?
Madame—Nothing at all; but it clearly shows that such things are not to be laughed at; and if I were to tell you that I had a longing—
Monsieur—(letting fall his newspaper)—The devil! a longing for what?
Madame—Ah! there your nostrils are dilating; you are going to resemble a lion again, and I never shall dare to tell you. It is so extraordinary, and yet my mother had exactly the same longing.
Monsieur—Come, tell it me, you see that I am patient. If it is possible to gratify it, you know that I love you, my . . . Don't kiss me on the neck; you will make me jump up to the ceiling, my darling.
Madame—Repeat those two little words. I am your darling, then?
Monsieur—Ha! ha! ha! She has little fingers which —ha! ha!— go into your neck—ha! ha!—you will make me break something, nervous as I am.
Madame—Well, break something. If one may not touch one's husband, one may as well go into a convent at once. (She puts her lips to MONSIEUR'S ear and coquettishly pulls the end of his moustache.) I shall not be happy till I have what I am longing for, and then it would be so kind of you to do it.
Monsieur—Kind to do what? Come, dear, explain yourself.
Madame—You must first of all take off that great, ugly dressing-gown, pull on your boots, put on your hat and go. Oh, don't make any faces; if you grumble in the least all the merit of your devotedness will disappear . . . and go to the grocer's at the corner of the street, a very respectable shop.
Monsieur—To the grocer's at ten o'clock at night! Are you mad? I will ring for John; it is his business.
Madame (staying his hand) You indiscreet man. These are our own private affairs; we must not take any one into our confidence. I will go into your dressing-room to get your things, and you will put your boots on before the fire comfortably . . . to please me, Alfred, my love, my life. I would give my little finger to have . . .
Monsieur—To have what, hang it all, what, what, what?
Madame—(her face alight and fixing her eyes on him)—I want a sou's worth of paste. Had not you guessed it?
Monsieur—But it is madness, delirium, fol—
Madame—I said paste, dearest; only a sou's worth, wrapped in strong paper.
Monsieur—No, no. I am kind-hearted, but I should reproach myself—
Monsieur—(freeing himself and suddenly rising)—Give me my boots.
Madame—(with effusion)—Oh, thanks, Alfred, my love, you are good, yes, you are good. Will you have your walking-stick, dear?
Monsieur—I don't care. How much do you want of that abomination—a franc's worth, thirty sous' worth, a louis' worth?
Madame—You know very well that I would not make an abuse of it-only a sou's worth. I have some sous for mass; here, take one. Adieu, Alfred; be quick; be quick!
(Exit MONSIEUR.)
Left alone, Madame wafts a kiss in her most tender fashion toward the door Monsieur has just closed behind him, then goes toward the glass and smiles at herself with pleasure. Then she lights the wax candle in a little candlestick, and quietly makes her way to the kitchen, noiselessly opens a press, takes out three little dessert plates, bordered with gold and ornamented with her initials, next takes from a box lined with white leather, two silver spoons, and, somewhat embarrassed by all this luggage, returns to her bedroom.
Then she pokes the fire, draws a little buhl table close up to the hearth, spreads a white cloth, sets out the plates, puts the spoons by them, and enchanted, impatient, with flushed complexion, leans back in an armchair. Her little foot rapidly taps the floor, she smiles, pouts— she is waiting.
At last, after an interval of some minutes, the outer door is heard to close, rapid steps cross the drawingroom, Madame claps her hands and Monsieur comes in. He does not look very pleased, as he advances holding awkwardly in his left hand a flattened parcel, the contents of which may be guessed.
Madame—(touching a gold-bordered plate and holding it out to her husband)—Relieve yourself of it, dear. Could you not have been quicker?
Monsieur—Quicker?
Madame—Oh! I am not angry with you, that is not meant for a reproach, you are an angel; but it seems to me a century since you started.
Monsieur—The man was just going to shut his shop up. My gloves are covered with it . . . it's sticky . . . it's horrid, pah! the abomination! At last I shall have peace and quietness.
Madame—Oh! no harsh words, they hurt me so. But look at this pretty little table, do you remember how we supped by the fireside? Ah! you have forgotten it, a man's heart has no memory.
Monsieur—Are you so mad as to imagine that I am going to touch it? Oh! indeed! that is carrying—
Madame—(sadly)—See what a state you get in over a little favor I ask of you. If in order to please me you were to overcome a slight repugnance, if you were just to touch this nice, white jelly with you lips, where would be the harm?
Monsieur—The harm! the harm! it would be ridiculous. Never.
Madame—That is the reason? "It would be absurd." It is not from disgust, for there is nothing disgusting there, it is flour and water, nothing more. It is not then from a dislike, but out of pride that you refuse?
Monsieur—(shrugging his shoulders)—What you say is childish, puerile, silly. I do not care to answer it.
Madame—And what you say is neither generous nor worthy of you, since you abuse your superiority. You see me at your feet pleading for an insignificant thing, puerile, childish, foolish, perhaps, but one which would give me pleasure, and you think it heroic not to yield. Do you want me to speak out, well? then, you men are unfeeling.
Monsieur—Never.
Madame—Why, you admitted it to me yourself one night, on the Pont des
Arts, as we were walking home from the theatre.
Monsieur—After all, there is no great harm in that.
Madame—(sadly)—I am not angry with you, this sternness is part of your nature, you are a rod of iron.
Monsieur—I have some energy when it is needed, I grant you, but I have not the absurd pride you imagine, and there (he dips his finger in the paste and carries it to his lips), is the proof, you spoilt child. Are you satisfied? It has no taste, it is insipid.
Madame—You were pretending.
Monsieur—I swear to you . . .
Madame (taking a little soon, filling it with her precious paste and holding it to her husband's lips)—I want to see the face you will make, love.
Monsieur—(Puts out his lips, buries his two front teeth, with marked disgust, in the paste, makes a horrible face and spits into the fireplace)—Eugh.
Madame—(still holding the spoon and with much interest) Well?
Monsieur—Well! it is awful! oh! awful! taste it.
Madame—(dreamily stirring the paste with the spoon, her little finger in the air)—I should never have believed that it was so nasty.
Monsieur—You will soon see for yourself, taste it, taste it.
Madame—I am in no hurry, I have plenty of time.
Monsieur—To see what it is like. Taste a little, come.
Madame—(pushing away the plate with a look of horror)—Oh! how you worry me. Be quiet, do; for a trifle I could hate you. It is disgusting, this paste of yours!
CHAPTER XXII
FAMILY LIFE
It was the evening of the 15th of February. It was dreadfully cold. The snow drove against the windows and the wind whistled furiously under the doors. My two aunts, seated at a table in one corner of the drawing- room, gave vent from time to time to deep sighs, and, wriggling in their armchairs, kept casting uneasy glances toward the bedroom door. One of them had taken from a little leather bag placed on the table her blessed rosary and was repeating her prayers, while her sister was reading a volume of Voltaire's correspondence which she held at a distance from her eyes, her lips moving as she perused it.
For my own part, I was striding up and down the room, gnawing my moustache, a bad habit I have never been able to get rid of, and halting from time to time in front of Dr. C., an old friend of mine, who was quietly reading the paper in the most comfortable of the armchairs. I dared not disturb him, so absorbed did he seem in what he was reading, but in my heart I was furious to see him so quiet when I myself was so agitated.
Suddenly he tossed the paper on to the couch and, passing his hand across his bald and shining head, said:
"Ah! if I were a minister, it would not take long, no, it would not be very long . . . . You have read that article on Algerian cotton. One of two things, either irrigation . . . . But you are not listening to me, and yet it is a more serious matter than you think."
He rose, and with his hands in his pocket, walked across the room humming an old medical student's song. I followed him closely.
"Jacques," said I, as he turned round, "tell me frankly, are you satisfied?"
"Yes, yes, I am satisfied . . . observe my untroubled look," and he broke into his hearty and somewhat noisy laugh.
"What a donkey you are, old fellow. I tell you that everything is going on well."
And he resumed his song, jingling the money in his pockets.
"All is going on well, but it will take some time," he went on. "Let me have one of your dressing-gowns. I shall be more comfortable for the night, and these ladies will excuse me, will they not?"
"Excuse you, I should think so, you, the doctor, and my friend!" I felt devotedly attached to him that evening.
"Well, then, if they will excuse me, you can very well let me have a pair of slippers."
At this moment a cry came from the next room and we distinctly heard these words in a stifled voice:
"Doctor . . . oh! mon Dieu! . . . doctor!"
"It is frightful," murmured my aunts.
"My dear friend," I exclaimed, seizing the doctor's arm," you are quite sure you are not concealing anything from me?"
"If you have a very loose pair they will suit me best; I have not the foot of a young girl . . . . I am not concealing anything, I am not concealing anything . . . . What do you think I should hide from you? It is all going on very well, only as I said it will take time— By the way, tell Joseph to get me one of your smokingcaps; once in dressing-gown and slippers a smokingcap is not out of the way, and I am getting bald, my dear Captain. How infernally cold it is here! These windows face the north, and there are no sand-bags. Mademoiselle de V.," he added, turning to my aunt, "you will catch cold."
Then as other sounds were heard, he said: "Let us go and see the little lady."
"Come here," said my wife, who had caught sight of me, in a low voice, "come here and shake hands with me." Then she drew me toward her and whispered in my ear: "You will be pleased to kiss the little darling, won't you?" Her voice was so faint and so tender as she said this, and she added: "Do not take your hand away, it gives me courage."
I remained beside her, therefore, while the doctor, who had put on my dressing-gown, vainly strove to button it.
From time to time my poor little wife squeezed my hand violently, closing her eyes, but not uttering a cry. The fire sparkled on the hearth. The pendulum of the clock went on with its monotonous ticking, but it seemed to me that all this calm was only apparent, that everything about me must be in a state of expectation like myself and sharing my emotion. In the bedroom beyond, the door of which was ajar, I could see the end of the cradle and the shadow of the nurse who was dozing while she waited.
What I felt was something strange. I felt a new sentiment springing up in my heart, I seemed to have some foreign body within my breast, and this sweet sensation was so new to me that I was, as it were, alarmed at it. I felt the little creature, who was there without yet being there, clinging to me; his whole life unrolled itself before me. I saw him at the same time a child and a grown-up man; it seemed to me that my own life was about to be renewed in his and I felt from time to time an irresistible need of giving him something of myself.
Toward half-past eleven, the doctor, like a captain consulting his compass, pulled out his watch, muttered something and drew near the bed.
"Come, my dear lady," said he to my wife, "courage, we are all round you and all is going well; within five minutes you will hear him cry out."
My mother-in-law, almost beside herself, was biting her lips and each pang of the sufferer was reflected upon her face. Her cap had got disarranged in such a singular fashion that, under any other circumstances, I should have burst out laughing. At that moment I heard the drawing-room door open and saw the heads of my aunts, one above the other, and behind them that of my father, who was twisting his heavy white moustache with a grimace that was customary to him.
"Shut the door," cried the doctor, angrily, "don't bother me."
And with the greatest coolness in the world he turned to my mother-in-law and added, "I ask a thousand pardons."
But just then there was something else to think of than my old friend's bluntness.
"Is everything ready to receive him?" he continued, growling.
"Yes, my dear doctor," replied my mother-in-law.
At length, the doctor lifted into the air a little object which almost immediately uttered a cry as piercing as a needle. I shall never forget the impression produced on me by this poor little thing, making its appearance thus, all of a sudden, in the middle of the family. We had thought and dreamed of it; I had seen him in my mind's eye, my darling child, playing with a hoop, pulling my moustache, trying to walk, or gorging himself with milk in his nurse's arms like a gluttonous little kitten; but I had never pictured him to myself, inanimate, almost lifeless, quite tiny, wrinkled, hairless, grinning, and yet, charming, adorable, and be loved in spite of all-poor, ugly, little thing. It was a strange impression, and so singular that it is impossible to understand it, without having experienced it.
"What luck you have!" said the doctor, holding the child toward me; "it is a boy."
"A boy!"
"And a fine one."
"Really, a boy!"
That was a matter of indifference to me now. What was causing me indescribable emotion was the living proof of paternity, this little being who was my own. I felt stupefied in presence of the great mystery of childbirth. My wife was there, fainting, overcame, and the little living creature, my own flesh, my own blood, was squalling and gesticulating in the hands of Jacques. I was overwhelmed, like a workman who had unconsciously produced a masterpiece. I felt myself quite small in presence of this quivering piece of my own handiwork, and, frankly, a little bit ashamed of having made it so well almost without troubling about it. I can not undertake to explain all this, I merely relate my impressions.
My mother-in-law held out her apron and the doctor placed the child on his grandmother's knees, saying: "Come, little savage, try not to be any worse than your rascal of a father. Now for five minutes of emotion. Come, Captain, embrace me."
We did so heartily. The doctor's little black eyes twinkled more brightly than usual; I saw very well that he was moved.
"Did it make you feel queer, Captain? I mean the cry? Ah! I know it,
it is like a needle through the heart . . . . Where is the nurse?
Ah! here she is. No matter, he is a fine boy, your little lancer.
Open the door for the prisoners in the drawing-room."
I opened the door. Every one was listening on the other side of it. My father, my two aunts, still holding in their hands, one her rosary and the other her Voltaire, my own nurse, poor old woman, who had come in a cab.
"Well," they exclaimed anxiously, "well?"
"It is all over, it is a boy; go in, he is there."
You can not imagine how happy I was to see on all their faces the reflection of my own emotion. They embraced me and shook hands with me, and I responded to all these marks of affection without exactly knowing where they came from.
"Damn it all!" muttered my father, in my ear, holding me in his arms, with his stick still in his hand and his hat on his head, "Damn it all!"
But he could not finish, however brave he might wish to appear; a big tear was glittering at the tip of his nose. He muttered "Hum!"
And I did likewise—I could not help it either.
However, everybody was flocking round the grandmamma, who lifted up a corner of her apron and said:
"How pretty he is, the darling, how pretty! Nurse, warm the linen, give me the caps."
"Smile at your aunty," said my aunt, jangling her rosary above the baby's head, "smile at aunty."
"Ask him at the same time to recite a fable," said the doctor.
Meanwhile my wife was coming to herself; she half opened her eyes and seemed to be looking for something.
"Where is he?" she murmured in a faint voice.
They showed her her mother's apron.
"A boy, is it not?"
Taking my hand, she drew me down toward her and said in a whisper,
"Are you satisfied with me? I did my best, dear."
"Come, no emotion," exclaimed the doctor, "you shall kiss each other tomorrow. Colonel," he said to my father, who still retained his hat and stick, "keep them from kissing. No emotion, and every one outside. I am going to dress the little lancer. Give me the little man, grandmamma. Come here, little savage. You shall see whether I don't know how to fasten pins in."
He took the baby in his two large hands and sat down on a stool before the fire.
I watched my boy whom Jacques was turning about like a doll, but with great skill. He examined him all over, touching and feeling him, and at each test said with a smile:
"He is a fine one, he is a fine one."
Then he rolled him up in his clothes, put a triple cap on his little bald head, tied a folded ribbon under his chin to prevent his head falling backward, and then, satisfied with his work, said:
"You saw how I did it, nurse? Well, you must dress this lancer every morning in the same way. Nothing but a little sugar and water till to- morrow. The mother has no fever. Come, all is going on well.
Lucky Captain! I am so hungry. Do you know that it is one in the morning? You haven't got cold partridge or a bit of pie that you don't know what to do with, have you? It would suit me down to the ground, with a bottle of something."
We went both into the dining-room and laid the cloth without any more ceremony.
I never in my life ate and drank so much as on that occasion.
"Come, get off to bed," said the doctor, putting on his coat. "To-morrow morning you shall have the wet-nurse. No, by the way, I'll call for you, and we will go and choose her together; it is curious. Be under arms at half-past eight."
CHAPTER XXIII
NEW YEAR'S DAY
It is barely seven o'clock. A pale ray of daylight is stealing through the double curtains, and already some one is tapping at the door. I can hear in the next room from the stifled laughter and the silvery tones of Baby, who is quivering with impatience, and asking leave to come in.
"Papa," he cries, "it is Baby, it is Baby come for the New Year."
"Come in, my darling; come quick, and kiss us."
The door opens and my boy, his eyes aglow, and his arms raised, rushes toward the bed. His curls, escaping from the nightcap covering his head, float on his forehead. His long, loose night-shirt, catching his little feet, increases his impatience, and causes him to stumble at every step.
At length he crosses the room, and, holding out his two hands to mine:
"Baby wishes you a Happy New Year," he says, in an earnest voice.
"Poor little love, with his bare feet! Come, darling, and warm yourself under the counterpane."
I lift him toward me, but at this moment my wife, who is asleep, suddenly wakes.
"Who is there?" she exclaims, feeling for the bell. "Thieves!"
"It is we two, dear."
"Who? Good heavens! how you frightened me! I was dreaming the house was on fire, and that I heard your voice amid the raging flames. You were very indiscreet in shouting like that!"
"Shouting! but you forget, mamma, that it is New Year's Day, the day of smiles and kisses? Baby was waiting for you to wake up, as well as myself."
However, I wrap the little fellow up in the eiderdown quilt and warm his cold feet in my hands.
"Mamma, it is New Year's Day," he exclaims. With his arms he draws our two heads together, puts forward his own and kisses us at haphazard with his moist lips. I feel his dimpled fists digging into my neck, his little fingers entangled in my beard.
My moustache tickles the tip of his nose, and he bursts into a fit of joyous laughter as he throws his head back.
His mother, who has recovered from her fright, takes him in her arms and rings the bell.
"The year is beginning well, dear," she says, "but we must have a little daylight."
"Mamma, naughty children don't have any new toys on New Year's Day, do they?"
And as he says this the sly fellow eyes a pile of parcels and packages heaped up in one corner, visible despite the semidarkness.
Soon the curtains are drawn aside, and the shutters opened; daylight floods the room; the fire crackles merrily on the hearth, and two large parcels, carefully tied up, are placed on the bed. One is for my wife, and the other for my boy.
"What is it? What is it?" I have multiplied the knots and tripled the wrappings, and I gleefully follow their impatient fingers entangled among the strings.
My wife gets impatient, smiles, pouts, kisses me, and asks for the scissors.
Baby on his side tugs with all his might, biting his lips as he does so, and ends by asking my help. His look strives to penetrate the wrappers. All the signs of desire and expectation are stamped on his face. His hand, hidden under the coverlet, causes the silk to rustle with his convulsive movements, and his lips quiver as at the approach of some dainty.
At length the last paper falls aside. The lid is lifted, and joy breaks forth.
"A fur tippet!"
"A Noah's ark!"
"To match my muff, dear, kind husband."
"With a Noah on wheels, dear papa. I do love you so."
They throw themselves on my neck, four arms are clasped round me at once. Emotion gets the better of me, and a tear steals into my eye. There are two in those of my wife, and Baby, losing his head, sobs as he kisses my hand.
It is absurd.
Absurd, I don't know; but delightful, I can answer for it.
Does not grief, after all, call forth enough tears for us to forgive joy the solitary one she perchance causes us to shed!
Life is not so sweet for us to risk ourselves in it singlehanded, and when the heart is empty the way seems very long.
It is so pleasant to feel one's self loved, to hear beside one the cadenced steps of one's fellow-travellers, and to say, "They are here, our three hearts beat in unison." So pleasant once a year, when the great clock strikes the first of January, to sit down beside the path, with hands locked together, and eyes fixed on the unknown dusty road losing itself in the horizon, and to say, while embracing one another, "We still love one another, my dear children; you rely on me, and I rely on you. Let us have confidence, and walk steadfastly."
This is how I explain that one
But breakfast time draws near. I have cut myself twice while shaving; I have stepped on my son's wild beasts in turning round, and I have the prospect of a dozen duty calls, as my wife terms them, before me; yet I am delighted.
We sit down to the breakfast table, which has a more than usually festive aspect. A faint aroma of truffles perfumes the air, every one is smiling, and through the glass I see, startling sight! the doorkeeper, with his own hands, wiping the handrail of the staircase. It is a glorious day.
Baby has ranged his elephants, lions, and giraffes round his plate, and his mother, under pretext of a draught, breakfasts in her tippet.
"Have you ordered the carriage, dear, for our visits?" I ask.
"That cushion for Aunt Ursula will take up such a deal of room. It might be put beside the coachman."
"Poor aunt."
"Papa, don't let us go to Aunt Ursula," said Baby; "she pricks so when she kisses you."
"Naughty boy . . . . Think of all we have to get into the carriage. Leon's rocking-horse, Louise's muff, your father's slippers, Ernestine's quilt, the bonbons, the work-box. I declare, aunt's cushion must go under the coachman's feet."
"Papa, why doesn't the giraffe eat cutlets?"
"I really don't know, dear."
"Neither do I, papa."
An hour later we are ascending the staircase leading to Aunt Ursula's. My wife counts the steps as she pulls herself up by the hand-rail, and I carry the famous cushion, the bonbons, and my son, who has insisted on bringing his giraffe with him.
Aunt Ursula, who produces the same effect on him as the sight of a rod would, is waiting us in her icy little drawing-room. Four square armchairs, hidden beneath yellow covers, stand vacant behind four little mats. A clock in the shape of a pyramid, surmounted on a sphere, ticks under a glass case.
A portrait on the wall, covered with fly-spots, shows a nymph with a lyre, standing beside a waterfall. This nymph was Aunt Ursula. How she has altered!
"My dear aunt, we have come to wish you a Happy New Year."
"To express our hopes that—"
"Thank you, nephew, thank you, niece," and she points to two chairs. "I am sensible of this step on your part; it proves to me that you have not altogether forgotten the duties imposed upon you by family ties."
"You are reckoning, my dear aunt, without the affection we feel for you, and which of itself is enough . . . Baby, go and kiss your aunt."
Baby whispers in my ear, "But, papa, I tell you she does prick."
I place the bonbons on a side-table.
"You can, nephew, dispense with offering me that little gift; you know that sweetmeats disagree with me, and, if I were not aware of your indifference as to the state of my health, I should see in your offering a veiled sarcasm. But let that pass. Does your father still bear up against his infirmities courageously?"
"Thank you, yes."
"I thought to please you, dear aunt," observes my wife, "by embroidering for you this cushion, which I beg you to accept."
"I thank you, child, but I can still hold myself sufficiently upright, thank God, not to have any need of a cushion. The embroidery is charming, it is an Oriental design. You might have made a better choice, knowing that I like things much more simple. It is charming, however, although this red next to the green here sets one's teeth on edge. Taste in colors is, however, not given to every one. I have, in return, to offer you my photograph, which that dear Abbe Miron insisted on my having taken."
"How kind you are, and how like you it is! Do you recognize your aunt,
Baby?"
"Do not think yourself obliged to speak contrary to your opinion. This photograph does not in any way resemble me, my eyes are much brighter. I have also a packet of jujubes for your child. He seems to have grown."
"Baby, go and kiss your aunt."
"And then we shall go, mamma?"
"You are very rude, my dear."
"Let him speak out; at any rate, he is frank. But I see that your husband is getting impatient, you have other . . . errands to fulfil; I will not keep you. Besides, I am going to church to pray for those who do not pray for themselves."
From twelve duty calls, subtract one duty call, and eleven remain. Hum!
"Coachman, Rue St. Louis au Marais."
"Papa, has Aunt Ursula needles in her chin?"
Let us pass over the eleven duty calls, they are no more agreeable to write of than to make.
Toward seven o'clock, heaven be praised, the horses stop before my father's, where dinner awaits us. Baby claps his hands, and smiles at old Jeannette, who, at the sound of the wheels, has rushed to the door. "Here they are," she exclaims, and she carries off Baby to the kitchen, where my mother, with her sleeves turned up, is giving the finishing touch to her traditional plum cake.
My father, on his way to the cellar, lantern in hand, and escorted by his old servant, Jean, who is carrying the basket, halts. "Why, children, how late you are! Come to my arms, my dears; this is the day on which one kisses in good earnest. Jean, hold my lantern a minute." And as my old father clasps me to his breast, his hand seeks out mine and grasps it, with a long clasp. Baby, who glides in between our legs, pulls our coat-tails and holds up his little mouth for a kiss too.
"But I am keeping you here in the anteroom and you are frozen; go into the drawing-room, there are a good fire and good friends there."
They have heard us, the door opens, and a number of arms are held out to us. Amid handshakings, embracings, good wishes, and kisses, boxes are opened, bonbons are showered forth, parcels are undone, mirth becomes deafening, and good humor tumultuous. Baby standing amid his presents resembles a drunken man surrounded by a treasure, and from time to time gives a cry of joy on discovering some fresh toy.
"The little man's fable," exclaims my father, swinging his lantern which he has taken again from Jean.
A deep silence ensues, and the poor child, whose debut in the elocutionary art it is, suddenly loses countenance. He casts down his eyes, blushes and takes refuge in the arms of his mother, who, stooping down, whispers, "Come, darling, 'A lamb was quenching'; you know the wolf and the lamb."
"Yes, mamma, I know the little lamb that wanted to drink." And in a contrite voice, his head bent down on his breast, he repeats with a deep sigh, "'A little lamb was quenching his thirst in a clear stream."'
We all, with ears on the alert and a smile on our lips, follow his delightful little jargon.
Uncle Bertrand, who is rather deaf, has made an ear trumpet of his hand and drawn his chair up. "Ah! I can follow it," he says. "It is the fox and the grapes." And as there is a murmur of "Hush," at this interruption, he adds: "Yes, yes, he recites with intelligence, great intelligence."
Success restores confidence to my darling, who finishes his fable with a burst of laughter. Joy is communicative, and we take our places at table amid the liveliest mirth.
"By the way," says my father, "where the deuce is my lantern. I have forgotten all about the cellar. Jean, take your basket and let us go and rummage behind the fagots."
The soup is smoking, and my