20 THE NABOB. friends of the " Quartier " to visit him on Sun- days at Nanterre, or to enable the manager him- self to make a flying call at his own haunts, the "brasseries." Madame Polge—Jenkins used to call her " our intelligent overseer," and, in fact, he had put her where she was to oversee everything, and first of all the manager himself —was not so severe as her functions might have induced you to believe, and she easily suc- cumbed to the temptation of a few glasses of cognac, or a game of fifteen hundred bezique. Therefore, the manager dismissed all the nurses, and steeled himself against anything that migh'; happen. And what happened? A veritable Massacre of the Innocents ! A few parents in easier circumstances, working men or small traders, who had been induced by the advertise- ments to part from their children, took them home again quickly, and there did not remain in^the establishment any others than unfortunate ba'bies, picked up under some porch or other, or in out-of-the-way places, and sent here by the hospitals—children destined from their birth to all possible evils. As the mortality continued to increase, even those began to fail, and the omnibus, which went to meet the train as sedate as a post-chaise, came back light and bound- ing like an empty hearse. How long would that last? How long would the twenty-five or thirty little fellows who remained be, before they died? Such was the question which the manager, or rather the registrar of deaths, Pon- devèz, was asking himself one fine morning, as he sat after breakfast having a game with the venerable Madame Polge. "Yes, my dear Madame Polge, what will become of us? It cannot last long like this. Jenkins will not yield, the babies are obstinate like mules. It's of no use; they will all slip between our fingers. Look at the little Wallachian—I mark the king, Madame Polge— he may die any moment. Just fancy the poor little man, with nothing in his stomach for three days! Jenkins may say what he likes; you cannot improve children as you do snails, by making them fast. It is really frightful! We cannot save a single one. The infirmary is cram full. 'Pon my soul, the whole thing has an ugly look!—Bezique!" A double ring at the entrance-gate inter- rupted his monologue. The omnibus was re- turning from the station, and its wheels creaked on the sand in quite an unusual way. "Strange!" said Pondevèz, "The omnibus is not empty." In fact, it came as far as the porch with a certain pride, and a man, who got out of it, rushed up the stairs. It was Jenkins's messenger, who was bringing great news. The doctor, the Nabob, and a gentleman from the Tuileries, would arrive in two hours to visit the home. Everything must be got ready to receive them. The thing had been settled so quickly that Jenkins had not had time to write. But he relied on Monsieur Pondevèz to do what was necessary. ' ' It is all very fine with his ' necessary,' " mut- tered Pondevèz, quite scared. The moment was critical. That important visit fell at the worst of times, when the system was actually breaking down. Poor puzzled Pompon pulled at his beard and chewed little twigs. " Come on," said he all at once to Madame Polge, whose face was getting longer between her bows. " We have only one thing to do. We must transport all our little patients from the infirmary to the dormitory. It will do them neither good nor harm to be brought here again for half a day. As for those who have got the rash, we will shove them into some corner. They are too ugly; we must not show them. Come, now. Quick! All hands up!" The dinner-bell being lustily rung, steps ¦were heard hurrying everywhere—laundresses, sick nurses, dry nurses, servants come from every nook, run about, knock against each other on the stairs, through the yard, every- where. Orders, shouts, and calls, cross each other ; and above all that uproar, is heard the noise of a great scrubbing, of running water, as if Bethlehem had been surprised by Ire—and the moans of sick children, snatched away from their warm beds, all those little bellowing par- cels, carried through the damp park, with their blankets catching the branches, complete that impression of a fire. After two hours, thanks to tremendous efforts, the house is ready from top to bottom for the visit which it is about to receive All the staff are at their posts, the stove is lighted, and the goats graze pictur- esquely all through the park! Madame Polge has put on her green silk dress; the manager's clothes do not present the same careless appear- ance as usual, yet their simplicity excludes the idea of previous preparation. The Secretary of her Majesty's commands may come. And lo! there he is. He alights with Jenkins and Jan- soulet out of a splendid coach, driven by a coachman in the red and gold livery of the Na- bob. With an expression of great astonish- ment Pondevèz rushed forward to meet his vis- itors. "Ha! Monsieur Jenkins. This honor! What a surprise!" There is an exchange of bows in the porch, hands shaken, introductions made. Jenkins, with his floating overcoat wide open on his loyal chest, smiles his best and most cordial smile. Nevertheless, his brows are knit with significant uneasiness. He dreads the surprises which the home may have in store for them; for he knows better than any one the misery of the place. Heaven grant that Pondevèz may have taken proper precautions! It begins well: the some- what theatrical display of the entrance, the white goats bounding through tho brushwood, have delighted Monsieur de la Perrière, who himself resembles a goat escaped from the stake to which she was tied, with his innocent eyes, his white imperial, and the continual nod- ding of his head. "This, gentlemen, is the most important room in the house: it is the nursery," says the manager, opening a massive door at the end of the antechamber. The gentlemen follow him, go down a few steps, and find themselves in an immense, low, flagged room, the former kitchen of the chateau. The first thing that strikes one on going in is a high and broad chimney, of an old style, in red bricks, with two stone benches facing each other under the mantel-piece, the coat-of-arms of the singer—an enormous lyre barred with a roll of music—sculptured on the monumental front. The effect is startling; but here comes a ter- rible draught, which, joined to the cold flag3 of the floor, to the dull light falling from the sky-light, frightens for the comfort of the chil- dren. But it could not be helped. They had to put the nursery in this unwholesome place, because of the rural and capricious manners of the goats, accustomed to great freedom in their stable. I^he sight of the milk pools, the big red stains drying on the flagged floor, the sharp smell which seizes you on first coming in—a mixture of sour milk, damp air, and many things besides—suffice to convince one of this absolute necessity. The walls were so dark-looking that the visi- tors thought at first the nursery was empty. Nevertheless, quite at the end, could be distin- guished a lively baaing and moaning group: two country-women, with hard, brutal, clayey faces—dry nurses, who thoroughly deserved their names—are seated on mats, with each a baby in her arms, each having before her a big goat with swollen teats and legs apart. The manager appears happily surprised. " Well, gentlemen, this is lucky! here are two of our children about to take their little lunch; we shall see how both nurses and nurselings man- He leaves "What is the matter with the fellow? He must be mad," says Jenkins, terrified, to him- self. But the manager knows very well what he is about. He has himself cleverly prepared the'scene, chosen two patient and gentle animals, and two exceptional babies, lusty little fellows, who insist on living at any price, and open their mouths to all kinds of food, like little birds in their nest. " Come near, gentlemen, and see for your- selves. They are really sucking, the cherubs!" One of them, gathered up under the goat, sets so heartily to his task, that you can hear the eurgling of the warm milk as it goes down to the'little fellow's legs, kicking with satisfaction. The other, of a calmer mood, lazily stretched on his back, has need of a little encouragement from his Auvergnat nurse. " Suck then, suck away, you little beggar!" Presently, as if he had suddenly made up his mind, he begins to suck with such lustiness, that the woman bends over him, quite surprised at that extraordinary appetite, and at last cries out laughing: "Oh, the little rogue! How clever of him! It's his thumb he's sucking, instead of the teat." Yes, the little angel had found out that dodge to be left alone. The incident does not look bad. On the contrary, Monsieur de la Pen ière is vastly amused with the nurse's idea that the child was trying to play them a trick, the nursery in great glee. "I am delighted, de—lighted!" he repeats, with a jerk of his head, as he goes up the wide stairs, with resounding walls and decorated with antlers, which lead to the dormitory. This immense, well-lighted, well-aired room, occupies a whole side of the house, and has many windows. At long intervals, there are cradles hung with curtains, as fleecy and white as clouds. Between the rows of cradles, women go and come with piles of linen on their arms, keys in their hands. They are the overseers, the bed-makers. Here everything is too well pre- pared, and the first impression of the visitors is not a good one. All this white muslin, this polished floor, on which the light spreads without diffusing itself, the brightness of the windows, which reflect a sky saddened at the sight of these things, bring out all the stronger the leanness, the sickly paleness of these little moribunds, as white as shrouds! Alas! the eldest are only six months old, the youngest barely a fortnight; and already, upon all those faces, those embryo faces, there is a doleful ex- pression, an old wrinkled look, a stamp of pre- cocious suffering, visible in the numerous folds of those small, bald foreheads, ensconced in caps bordered with thin common lace. What is the matter with them? What is the matter? everything is the mat- ter, everything—children's ailments and men's diseases, both. Born of vice and misery, they bring with them into this world hideous hered- itary stains; one has a perforated palate, an- other large coppery spots on his forehead ; all have the thrush ; ahd as if that were not enough, they are dying of hunger. In spite of the spoonfuls of milk, in spite of the sugared water introduced by force into their mouths, in spite of the sucking-bottle, used contrary to orders, the little things are starving. These little children, exhausted before their birth, required the youngest and strongest food. The goats might have given it them, but they refuse to suck the goats. And that is why the dormitory is gloomy and silent, without even a little burst of angerj in which a child tries his breath and his strength, clenches his little fists, and roars till he shows his rosy and smooth gums; here is hardly heard a plaintive moan, like the uneasi- ness of a soul, which turns in every direction in a little sickly body, without finding any place in which to rest. Jenkins and the manager, perceiving the bad effect which the visit to the dormitory produces upon their guests, try to enliven the situation, speak very loud, in an off-hand way, jauntily, and like men who are satisfied. Jenkins shakes hands with the housekeeper. "Well, Madame Polge, how are your little charges?" " As you see, Doctor," says she, showing the beds. She has a gloomy look, in her green dress, that tall Madame Polge, the ideal of dry nurses. She completes the picture. But where is the Secretary of her Majesty's commands? There he is, standing before a cradle, which he examines with many jerks of his head. " By Jove!" says Pompon to Madame Polge, "it is the Wallachian." The little blue label, hanging over the cradle, just as in hospitals, proclaims, indeed, the na- tionality of the child: "Moldo-Wallachian." What a pity the Secretary's attention should have been drawn precisely to that one! Look at the poor little head lying on its pillow, its little cap awry, its nostrils pinched, its mouth half open, through which passes a short and panting breath, the breath of the new-born and the dying! " Is he ill?" asked softly the Secretary of the manager, who has drawn near. " Not at all," answers the shameless Pompon. And approaching the cradle, he chucks him with his finger, smooths the pillow, and says with a loud voice, gruff, but good-natured: ' ' Well, old fellow !" Shaken out of his torpor, leaving the shadow wliich already surrounds him, the child opens his eyes and looks with mournful indifference at the faces which are bent over him; then, returning to his dream which he finds prettier, he clenches his little wrinkled hands, and heaves an imperceptible sigh. Mystery! Who shall tell what he had come into this life for, poor little fellow? Suffer two months,'and then pass away without hav- ing seen anything, understood anything, the very sound of his voice unknown to all!