Books: Monsieur, Madame and Bebe, v3
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Gustave Droz >> Monsieur, Madame and Bebe, v3
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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!" under
his moustache and finally burst into tears on my shoulder, saying: "I can
not help it."
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 may weep a little while examining a new
fur tippet and opening a Noah's ark.
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 mother, after having glanced smilingly round
the table, plunges her ladle into the tureen. Give me the family dinner
table at which those we love are seated, at which we may risk resting our
elbows at dessert, and at which at thirty we once more taste the wine
offered at our baptism.
CHAPTER XXIV
LETTERS OF A YOUNG MOTHER TO HER FRIEND.
The little caps are the ones I want, Marie. Be good enough to send me
the pattern of the braces, those of your own invention, you know. Thanks
for your coverlet, it is soft, flexible, warm, and charming, and Baby,
amid its white wool, looks like a rosebud hidden in the snow. I am
becoming poetical, am I not? But what would you have? My poor heart is
overflowing with joy. My son, do you understand that, dear, my own son?
When I heard the sharp cry of the little being whom my mother showed me
lying in her apron, it seemed to me that a burning thrill of love shot
through my veins. My old doctor's bald head was close to me, I caught
hold of it and kissed him thrice.
"Calm yourself, my dear child," said he.
"Doctor, be quiet, or I will kiss you again. Give me my baby, my love.
Are you quite sure it is a boy?"
And in the adjoining drawing-room, where the whole family were waiting, I
could hear amid the sound of kisses, the delightful words, "It is a boy,
a fine boy."
My poor husband, who for twelve hours had not left me, overcome with
fatigue and emotion, was crying and laughing in one corner of the room.
"Come, nurse, swaddle him, quick now. No pins, confound it all, strings,
I will have strings. What? Give me the child, you don't understand
anything about it."
And the good doctor in the twinkling of an eye had dressed my child.
"He looks a Colonel, your boy. Put him into the cradle with . . . now
be calm, my dear patient . . . with a hot-water bottle to his feet.
Not too much fire, especially in the Colonel's room. Now, no more noise,
repose, and every one out of the way."
And as through the opening of the door which was just ajar, Aunt Ursula
whispered, "Doctor, let me come in; just to press her hand, doctor."
"Confound it! every one must be off; silence and quiet are absolutely
necessary." They all left.
"Octave," continued the doctor, "come and kiss your wife now, and make an
end of it. Good little woman, she has been very brave . . . .
Octave, come and kiss your wife, and be quick about it if you don't want
me to kiss her myself. I will do what I say," he added, threatening to
make good his words.
Octave, buried in his child's cradle, did not hear.
"Good, now he is going to suffocate my Colonel for me."
My husband came at length. He held out his hand which was quivering with
emotion, and I grasped it with all my might. If my heart at that moment
did not break from excess of feeling, it was because God no doubt knew
that I should still have need of it.
You know, dear Marie, that before a child comes we love each other as
husband and wife, but we love each other on our own account, while
afterward we love each other on his, the dear love, who with his tiny
hand has rivetted the chain forever. God, therefore, allows the heart to
grow and swell. Mine was full; nevertheless, my baby came and took his
place in it. Yet nothing overflowed, and I still feel that there is room
for mother and yourself. You told me, and truly, that this would be a
new life, a life of deep love and delightful devotion. All my past
existence seems trivial and colorless to me, and I perceive that I am
beginning to live. I am as proud as a soldier who has been in battle.
Wife and mother, those words are our epaulettes. Grandmother is the
field-marshal's baton.
How sweet I shall render the existence of my two loved ones!
How I shall cherish them! I am wild, I weep, I should like to kiss you.
I am afraid I am too happy.
My husband is really good. He holds the child with such pleasing
awkwardness, it costs him such efforts to lift this slight burden. When
he brings it to me, wrapped in blankets, he walks with slow and careful
steps. One would think that the ground was going to crumble away beneath
his feet. Then he places the little treasure in my bed, quite close to
me, on a large pillow. We deck Baby; we settle him comfortably, and if
after many attempts we get him to smile, it is an endless joy. Often my
husband and I remain in the presence of this tiny creature, our heads
resting on our hands. We silently follow the hesitating and charming
movements of his little rosy-nailed hand on the silk, and we find in this
so deep a charm that it needs a considerable counter-attraction to tear
us away.
We have most amusing discussions on the shape of his forehead and the
color of his eyes, which always end in grand projects for his future,
very silly, no doubt, but so fascinating.
Octave wants him to follow a diplomatic career. He says that he has the
eye of a statesman and that his gestures, though few, are full of
meaning. Poor, dear little ambassador, with only three hairs on your
head! But what dear hairs they are, those threads of gold curling at the
back of his neck, just above the rosy fold where the skin is so fine and
so fresh that kisses nestle there of themselves.
The whole of this little body has a perfume which intoxicates me and
makes my heart leap. What, dear friend, are the invisible ties which
bind us to our children? Is it an atom of our own soul, a part of our
own life, which animates and vivifies them? There must be something of
the kind, for I can read amid the mists of his little mind. I divine his
wishes, I know when he is cold, I can tell when he is hungry.
Do you know the most delightful moment? It is when after having taken
his evening meal and gorged himself with milk like a gluttonous little
kitten, he falls asleep with his rosy cheek resting on my arm. His limbs
gently relax, his head sinks down on my breast, his eyes close, and his
half-opened mouth continues to repeat the action of suckling.
His warm, moist breath brushes the hand that is supporting him. Then I
wrap him up snugly in my turned-up skirt, hide his little feet under his
clothes and watch my darling. I have him there, all to myself, on my
knees. There is not a quiver of his being that escapes me or that does
not vibrate in myself. I feel at the bottom of my heart a mirror that
reflects them all. He is still part of me. Is it not my milk that
nourishes him, my voice that hushes him off to sleep, my hand that
dresses and caresses, encourages and supports him? The feeling that I am
all in all for him further adds a delicious charm of protection to the
delight of having brought him into the world.
When I think that there are women who pass by such joys without turning
their heads. The fools!
Yes, the present is delightful and I am drunk with happiness. There is
also the future, far away in the clouds. I often think of it, and I do
not know why I shudder at the approach of a storm.
Madness! I shall love him so discreetly, I shall render the weight of my
affection so light for him, that why should he wish to separate from me?
Shall I not in time become his friend? Shall I not when a black down
shadows those rosy little lips, when the bird, feeling its wings grown,
seeks to leave the nest, shall I not be able to bring him back by
invisible ties to the arms in which he now is sleeping? Perhaps at that
wretched moment they call a man's youth you will forget me, my little
darling! Other hands than mine perhaps will brush the hair away from
your forehead at twenty. Alas! other lips, pressed burningly where mine
are now pressed, will wipe out with a kiss twenty years of caresses.
Yes, but when you return from this intoxicating and fatiguing journey,
tired and exhausted, you will soon take refuge in the arms that once
nursed you, you will rest your poor, aching head where it rests now, you
will ask me to wipe away your tears and to make you forget the bruises
received on the way, and I shall give you, weeping for joy, the kiss
which at once consoles and fills with hope.
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