On the day when the marquis started for Gagny, Jacquinot Frimousset had begun his visits to the wine-shop in the morning, and he was already quite drunk when one of his friends informed him that the Marquis de Grandvilain’s carriage was in front of his door.
“Good!” said Jacquinot, “it’s my friend Monsieur Jasmin come to see us. He ain’t a bit proud, although he’s a valet de chambre in a noble family; we’ll empty a few jugs together.”
And the nurse’s husband succeeded, although staggering and stumbling at every step, in reaching his own house; he entered the room where Monsieur de Grandvilain was at that moment occupied in dandling his son, who was then a year old; and who seemed much amused by his dear father’s chin, which did not remain at rest for an instant.
“Who’s that old codger?” cried Frimousset, trying to open his eyes and leaning against the wall.
“It’s Monsieur le Marquis de Grandvilain himself,” cried Nicole, making signs to her husband to assume a more respectful attitude; but he roared with laughter, and said:
“That, Chérubin’s father? Nonsense! Impossible! It’s his grandfather, his great grandfather at least! As if a shrivelled and shrunken old fellow like that could have such young children!”
Monsieur de Grandvilain turned purple with rage; for a moment he was tempted to take his son away and never again set foot inside the house of that vulgar peasant who had said such unpleasant things to him; but Nicole had already succeeded in pushing her husband out of the room, and Jasmin, who was engaged in refreshing himself at a little distance, went to his master and said:
“Don’t pay any attention to him, my dear master, the foster-father has been drinking; he’s drunk, he can’t see straight; but for that, he would never have said such things to you; he might have thought them, perhaps, but he wouldn’t have said them.”
“My husband is a drunken sot and nothing else,” said Nicole. “I ask your pardon for him, monsieur le marquis; the idea of thinking that you ain’t your son’s father! Mon Dieu! it’s plain enough that his eyes are blinded by drink. Why, the dear child is the very image of you! He has your nose and your mouth and your eyes and everything!”
This language was absurdly exaggerated, and far from flattering to little Chérubin; but the Marquis de Grandvilain, who did not choose to grow old, took it all for gospel truth; he looked at his son again and murmured: