astonishment, and glanced at the sun as if he had not previously noticed it. “That is true, it is fine weather — and besides it is very good for Reine to go out a little.”
Then he tenderly gazed at her, so charming, so pink and white in her black mourning gown. He was always fearing that she must feel bored during the long hours when he left her at home, alone with the servant. To him solitude was so distressful, so full of the wife whom he mourned, and whom he accused himself of having killed.
“Papa won’t believe that one never feels ennui at my age,” said the girl gayly. “Since my poor mamma is no longer there, I must needs be a little woman. And, besides, the Baroness sometimes calls to take me out.”
Then she gave a shrill cry on seeing a brougham draw up close to the curb. A woman was leaning out of the window, and she recognized her.
“Why, papa, there is the Baroness! She must have gone to our house, and Clara must have told her that I had accompanied you here.”
This, indeed, was what had happened. Morange hastily led Reine to the carriage, from which Seraphine did not alight. And when his daughter had sprung in joyously, he remained there another moment, effusively thanking the Baroness, and delighted to think that his dear child was going to amuse herself. Then, after watching the brougham till it disappeared, he entered the factory, looking suddenly aged and shrunken, as if his grief had fallen on his shoulders once more, so overwhelming him that he quite forgot the others, and did not even take leave of them.
“Poor fellow!” muttered Mathieu, who had turned icy cold on seeing Seraphine’s bright mocking face and red hair at the carriage window.
Then he was going to his office when Beauchene beckoned to him from one of the windows of the house to come in with the doctor. The pair of them found Constance and Maurice in the little drawingroom, whither the father had repaired to finish his coffee and smoke a cigar. Boutan immediately attended to the child, who was much better with respect to his legs, but who still suffered from stomachic disturbance, the slightest departure from the prescribed diet leading to troublesome complications.
Constance, though she did not confess it, had become really anxious about the boy, and questioned the doctor, and listened to him with all eagerness. While she was thus engaged Beauchene drew Mathieu on one side.
“I say,” he began, laughing, “why did you not tell me that everything was finished over yonder? I met the pretty blonde in the street yesterday.”
Mathieu quietly replied that he had waited to be questioned in order to render an account of his mission, for he had not cared to be the first to raise such a painful subject. The money handed to him for expenses had proved sufficient, and whenever the other desired it, he could produce receipts for his various disbursements. He was already entering into particulars when Beauchene jovially interrupted him.
“You know what happened here? She had the audacity to come and ask for work, not of me of course, but of the foreman of the women’s workroom. Fortunately I had foreseen this and had given strict orders; so the foreman told her that considerations of order and discipline prevented him from taking her back. Her sister Euphrasie, who is to be married next week, is still working here. Just fancy them having another set-to! Besides, her place is not here.”
Then he went to take a little glass of cognac which stood on the mantelpiece.
Mathieu had learnt only the day before that Norine, on leaving Madame Bourdieu’s, had sought a temporary refuge with a female friend, not caring to resume a life of quarrelling at her parents’ home. Besides her attempt to regain admittance at Beauchene’s, she had applied at two other establishments; but, as a matter of fact, she did not evince any particular ardor in seeking to obtain work. Four months’ idleness and coddling had altogether disgusted her with a factory hand’s life, and the inevitable was bound to happen. Indeed Beauchene, as he came back sipping his cognac, resumed: “Yes, I met her in the street. She was quite smartly dressed, and leaning on the arm of a big, bearded young fellow, who did nothing but make eyes at her. It was certain to come to that, you know. I always thought so.”
Then he was stepping towards his wife and the doctor, when he remembered something else, came back, and asked Mathieu in a yet lower tone, “What was it you were telling me about the child?” And as soon as Mathieu had related that he had taken the infant to the Foundling Hospital so as to be certain that it was deposited there, he warmly pressed his hand. “That’s perfect. Thank you, my dear fellow; I shall be at peace now.”
He felt, indeed, intensely relieved, hummed a lively air, and then took his stand before Constance, who was still consulting the doctor. She was holding little Maurice against her knees, and gazing at him with the jealous love of a good bourgeoise, who carefully watched over the health of her only son, that son whom she wished to make a prince of industry and wealth. All at once, however, in reply to a remark from Boutan, she exclaimed: “Why then, doctor, you think me culpable? You really say that a child, nursed by his mother, always has a stronger constitution than others, and can the better resist the ailments of childhood?”
“Oh! there is no doubt of it, madame.”
Beauchene, ceasing to chew his cigar, shrugged his shoulders, and burst into a sonorous laugh: “Oh! don’t you worry, that youngster will live to be a hundred! Why, the Burgundian who nursed him was as strong as a rock! But, I say, doctor, you intend then to make the Chambers pass a law for obligatory nursing by mothers?”
At this sally Boutan also began to laugh. “Well, why not?” said he.
This at once supplied Beauchene with material for innumerable jests. Why, such a law would completely upset manners and customs, social life would be suspended, and drawingrooms would become deserted! Posters would be placarded everywhere bearing the inscription: “Closed on account of nursing.”
“Briefly,” said Beauchene, in conclusion, “you want to have a revolution.”
“A revolution, yes,” the doctor gently replied, “and we will effect it.”
X
MATHIEU finished studying his great scheme, the clearing and cultivation of Chantebled, and at last, contrary to all prudence but with all the audacity of fervent faith and hope, it was resolved upon. He warned Beauchene one morning that he should leave the works at the end of the month, for on the previous day he had spoken to Seguin, and had found him quite willing to sell the little pavilion and some fifty acres around it on very easy terms. As Mathieu had imagined, Seguin’s affairs were in a very muddled state, for he had lost large sums at the gaming table and spent money recklessly on women, leading indeed a most disastrous life since trouble had arisen in his home. And so he welcomed the transaction which Mathieu proposed to him, in the hope that the young man would end by ridding him of the whole of that unprofitable estate should his first experiment prove successful. Then came other interviews between them, and Seguin finally consented to sell on a system of annual payments, spread over a term of years, the first to be made in two years’ time from that date. As things stood, the property seemed likely to remain unremunerative forever, and so there was nothing risked in allowing the purchaser a couple of years’ credit. However, they agreed to meet once more and settle the final details before a formal deed of sale was drawn up. And one Monday morning, therefore, about ten o’clock, Mathieu set out for the house in the Avenue d’Antin in order to complete the business.
That morning, as it happened, Celeste the maid
