“Mamma Nicole, ain’t we going home soon?”
One day the marquis assumed a solemn expression, and beckoning his son to his side, said to him:
“But, Chérubin, you are at home here. When you are at the village, you are at your nurse’s home; here you are in your father’s house and consequently at your own home.”
“Oh, no!” he replied, “this ain’t to home.”
“You are an obstinate little fellow, Chérubin; you don’t think that you are at home here, because you are not used to being here; but if you should stay here no more than a fortnight, you would forget the village; for after all it is much finer here than at your nurse’s house; isn’t it?”
“Oh no! it’s ever so much prettier to our house!”
“To our house! to our house! this is most annoying. However, as it is so, as you are not happy at your father’s house, you are going to stay here, Chérubin; you shan’t go back to your nurse’s again; I am going to keep you with me; you shall not leave me after this; and at all events I will teach you to speak French, and not to say ‘to our house’ any more!”
The child did not dare to reply; the stern tone which his father assumed to him for the first time, terrified him so that he was speechless and dared not move; but in a moment his features contracted, his tears gushed forth and he began to sob.
Thereupon Jasmin, who, in an adjoining room, had heard all that had been said, rushed at his master like a madman, crying:
“Well! what does this mean? So you make our child cry now, do you? That’s very nice of you! do you propose to become a tyrant?”
“No, monsieur, I won’t allow you to make our little one unhappy! I should think not! I say that you shall not! Look, see how he is crying, the dear boy! For heaven’s sake, what is the matter with you to-day, monsieur? Has the gout gone to your heart?”
“I don’t care, monsieur; beat me, discharge me, send me to the stable, make me sleep with the horses; do whatever you choose, but don’t make this child cry; for if you do, why--I----”
Jasmin paused; he could say no more, because he too was weeping.
Monsieur de Grandvilain, when he saw his faithful servant cover his eyes with his handkerchief, held out his hand instead of scolding him, and said:
“Come! come! don’t lose your head. I was wrong, yes, I was wrong, since I have made this poor child unhappy. After all, my company is not very lively; the gout often makes me cross. What would he do in this great house, poor boy? He is too young to be made to study. And then he no longer has any mother, so we must leave him with his nurse as long as possible. Besides, the air in Paris is not so good as that which he breathes in the village. So take back your foster-child, nurse; as he loves you so dearly, it must be that you make him happy. Come and kiss me, Chérubin, and don’t cry any more; you are going back to your good friends; they do not love you any more than we do, but you love them more. I will try to be patient, and perhaps my turn will come some day.”