So George went to the door and called his mother. She entered and
greeted the doctor, holding herself erect, and striving to keep the
signs of grief and terror from her face. She signed to the doctor to
take a seat, and then seated herself by a little table near him.

"Madame Dupont," he began, "I have prescribed a course of treatment for
the child. I hope to be able to improve its condition, and to prevent
any new developments. But my duty and yours does not stop there; if
there is still time, it is necessary to protect the health of the
nurse."

"Tell us what it is necessary to do, Doctor?" said she.

"The woman must stop nursing the child."

"You mean we have to change the nurse?"

"Madame, the child can no longer be brought up at the breast, either by
that nurse or by any other nurse."

"But why, sir?"

"Because the child would give her disease to the woman who gave her
milk."

"But, Doctor, if we put her on the bottle--our little one--she will
die!"

And suddenly George burst out into sobs. "Oh, my poor little daughter!
My God, my God!"

Said the doctor, "If the feeding is well attended to, with sterilized
milk--"

"That can do very well for healthy infants," broke in Madame Dupont.
"But at the age of three months one cannot take from the breast a baby
like ours, frail and ill. More than any other such an infant has need of
a nurse--is that not true?"

"Yes," the doctor admitted, "that is true. But--"

"In that case, between the life of the child, and the health of the
nurse, you understand perfectly well that my choice is made."

Between her words the doctor heard the sobbing of George, whose head was
buried in his arms. "Madame," he said, "your love for that baby has just
caused you to utter something ferocious! It is not for you to choose. It
is not for you to choose. I forbid the nursing. The health of that woman
does not belong to you."

"No," cried the grandmother, wildly, "nor does the health of out child
belong to you! If there is a hope of saving it, that hope is in giving
it more care than any other child; and you would wish that I put it
upon a mode of nourishment which the doctors condemn, even for vigorous
infants! You expect that I will let myself be taken in like that? I
answer you: she shall have the milk which she needs, my poor little one!
If there was a single thing that one could do to save her--I should be
a criminal to neglect it!" And Madame Dupont broke out, with furious
scorn, "The nurse! The nurse! We shall know how to do our duty--we
shall take care of her, repay her. But our child before all! No sir,
no! Everything that can be done to save our baby I shall do, let it cost
what it will. To do what you say--you don't realize it--it would be as
if I should kill the child!" In the end the agonized woman burst into
tears. "Oh, my poor little angel! My little savior!"

George had never ceased sobbing while his mother spoke; at these last
words his sobs became loud cries. He struck the floor with his foot, he
tore his hair, as if he were suffering from violent physical pain. "Oh,
oh, oh!" he cried. "My little child! My little child!" And then, in a
horrified whisper to himself, "I am a wretch! A criminal!"

"Madame," said the doctor, "you must calm yourself; you must both calm
yourselves. You will not help out the situation by lamentations. You
must learn to take it with calmness."

Madame Dupont set her lips together, and with a painful effort recovered
her self-control. "You are right, sir," she said, in a low voice. "I ask
your pardon; but if you only knew what that child means to me! I lost
one at that age. I am an old woman, I am a widow--I had hardly hoped to
live long enough to be a grandmother. But, as you say--we must be calm."
She turned to the young man, "Calm yourself, my son. It is a poor way to
show our love for the child, to abandon ourselves to tears. Let us talk,
Doctor, and seriously--coldly. But I declare to you that nothing will
ever induce me to put the child on the bottle, when I know that it might
kill her. That is all I can say."

The doctor replied: "This isn't the first time that I find myself in
the present situation. Madame, I declare to you that always--ALWAYS,
you understand--persons who have rejected my advice have had reason to
repent it cruelly."

"The only thing of which I should repent--" began the other.

"You simply do not know," interrupted the doctor, "what such a nurse is
capable of. You cannot imagine what bitterness--legitimate
bitterness, you understand--joined to the rapacity, the cupidity, the
mischief-making impulse--might inspire these people to do. For them the
BOURGEOIS is always somewhat of an enemy; and when they find themselves
in position to avenge their inferiority, they are ferocious."

"But what could the woman do?"

"What could she do? She could bring legal proceedings against you."

"But she is much too stupid to have that idea."

"Others will put it into her mind."

"She is too poor to pay the preliminary expenses."

"And do you propose then to profit by her ignorance and stupidity?
Besides, she could obtain judicial assistance."

"Why, surely," exclaimed Madame Dupont, "such a thing was never heard
of! Do you mean that?"

"I know a dozen prosecutions of that sort; and always when there has
been certainty, the parents have lost their case."

"But surely, Doctor, you must be mistaken! Not in a case like ours--not
when it is a question of saving the life of a poor little innocent!"

"Oftentimes exactly such facts have been presented."

Here George broke in. "I can give you the dates of the decisions." He
rose from his chair, glad of an opportunity to be useful. "I have
the books," he said, and took one from the case and brought it to the
doctor.

"All of that is no use--" interposed the mother.

But the doctor said to George, "You will be able to convince yourself.
The parents have been forced once or twice to pay the nurse a regular
income, and at other times they have had to pay her an indemnity, of
which the figure has varied between three and eight thousand francs."

Madame Dupont was ready with a reply to this. "Never fear, sir! If there
should be a suit, we should have a good lawyer. We shall be able to pay
and choose the best--and he would demand, without doubt, which of the
two, the nurse or the child, has given the disease to the other."

The doctor was staring at her in horror. "Do you not perceive that would
be a monstrous thing to do?"

"Oh, I would not have to say it," was the reply. "The lawyer would see
to it--is not that his profession? My point is this: by one means or
another he would make us win our case."

"And the scandal that would result," replied the other. "Have you
thought of that?"

Here George, who had been looking over his law-books, broke in. "Doctor,
permit me to give you a little information. In cases of this sort, the
names are never printed."

"Yes, but they are spoken at the hearings."

"That's true."

"And are you certain that there will not be any newspaper to print the
judgment?"

"What won't they stoop to," exclaimed Madame Dupont--"those filthy
journals!"

"Ah," said the other, "and see what a scandal? What a shame it would be
to you!"

"The doctor is right, mother," exclaimed the young man.

But Madame Dupont was not yet convinced. "We will prevent the woman from
taking any steps; we will give her what she demands from us."

"But then," said the other, "you will give yourselves up to the risk of
blackmail. I know a family which has been thus held up for over twelve
years."

"If you will permit me, Doctor," said George, timidly, "she could be
made to sign a receipt."

"For payment in full?" asked the doctor, scornfully.

"Even so."

"And then," added his mother, "she would be more than delighted to go
back to her country with a full purse. She would be able to buy a little
house and a bit of ground--in that country one doesn't need so much in
order to live."

At this moment there was a tap upon the door, and the nurse entered. She
was a country woman, robust, rosy-cheeked, fairly bursting with health.
When she spoke one got the impression that her voice was more than she
could contain. It did not belong in a drawing-room, but under the open
sky of her country home. "Sir," she said, addressing the doctor, "the
baby is awake."

"I will go and see her," was the reply; and then to Madame Dupont, "We
will take up this conversation later on."

"Certainly," said the mother. "Will you have need of the nurse?"

"No, Madame," the doctor answered.

"Nurse," said the mother, "sit down and rest. Wait a minute, I wish to
speak to you." As the doctor went out, she took her son to one side and
whispered to him, "I know the way to arrange everything. If we let
her know what is the matter, and if she accepts, the doctor will have
nothing more to say. Isn't that so?"

"Obviously," replied the son.

"I am going to promise that we will give her two thousand francs when
she goes away, if she will consent to continue nursing the child."

"Two thousand francs?" said the other. "Is that enough?"

"I will see," was the reply. "If she hesitates, I will go further. Let
me attend to it."

George nodded his assent, and Madame Dupont returned to the nurse. "You
know," she said, "that our child is a little sick?"

The other looked at her in surprise. "Why no, ma'am!"

"Yes," said the grandmother.

"But, ma'am, I have taken the best of care of her; I have always kept
her proper."

"I am not saying anything to the contrary," said Madame Dupont, "but the
child is sick, the doctors have said it."

The nurse was not to be persuaded; she thought they were getting ready
to scold her. "Humph," she said, "that's a fine thing--the doctors! If
they couldn't always find something wrong you'd say they didn't know
their business."

"But our doctor is a great doctor; and you have seen yourself that our
child has some little pimples."

"Ah, ma'am," said the nurse, "that's the heat--it's nothing but the heat
of the blood breaking out. You don't need to bother yourself; I tell you
it's only the child's blood. It's not my fault; I swear to you that she
had not lacked anything, and that I have always kept her proper."

"I am not reproaching you--"

"What is there to reproach me for? Oh, what bad luck! She's tiny--the
little one--she's a bit feeble; but Lord save us, she's a city child!
And she's getting along all right, I tell you."

"No," persisted Madame Dupont, "I tell you--she has got a cold in her
head, and she has an eruption at the back of the throat."

"Well," cried the nurse, angrily, "if she has, it's because the doctor
scratched her with that spoon he put into her mouth wrong end first! A
cold in the head? Yes, that's true; but if she has caught cold, I can't
say when, I don't know anything about it--nothing, nothing at all. I
have always kept her well covered; she's always had as much as three
covers on her. The truth is, it was when you came, the time before last;
you were all the time insisting upon opening the windows in the house!"

"But once more I tell you," cried Madame Dupont, "we are not putting any
blame on you."

"Yes," cried the woman, more vehemently. "I know what that kind of talk
means. It's no use--when you're a poor country woman."

"What are you imagining now?" demanded the other.

"Oh, that's all right. It's no use when you're a poor country woman."

"I repeat to you once more," cried Madame Dupont, with difficulty
controlling her impatience, "we have nothing whatever to blame you for."

But the nurse began to weep. "If I had known that anything like this was
coming to me--"

"We have nothing to blame you for," declared the other. "We only wish to
warn you that you might possibly catch the disease of the child."

The woman pouted. "A cold in the head!" she exclaimed. "Well, if I catch
it, it won't be the first time. I know how to blow my nose."

"But you might also get the pimples."

At this the nurse burst into laughter so loud that the bric-a-brac
rattled. "Oh, oh, oh! Dear lady, let me tell you, we ain't city folks,
we ain't; we don't have such soft skins. What sort of talk is that?
Pimples--what difference would that make to poor folks like us? We don't
have a white complexion like the ladies of Paris. We are out all day in
the fields, in the sun and the rain, instead of rubbing cold cream
on our muzzles! No offense, ma'am--but I say if you're looking for an
excuse to get rid of me, you must get a better one than that."

"Excuse!" exclaimed the other. "What in the world do you mean?"

"Oh, I know!" said the nurse, nodding her head.

"But speak!"

"It's no use, when you're only a poor country woman."

"I don't understand you! I swear to you that I don't understand you!"

"Well," sneered the other, "I understand."

"But then--explain yourself."

"No, I don't want to say it."

"But you must; I wish it."

"Well--"

"Go ahead."

"I'm only a poor country woman, but I am no more stupid than the others,
for all that. I know perfectly well what your tricks mean. Mr. George
here has been grumbling because you promised me thirty francs more a
month, if I came to Paris." And then, turning upon the other, she went
on--"But, sir, isn't it only natural? Don't I have to put my own child
away somewheres else? And then, can my husband live on his appetite?
We're nothing but poor country people, we are."

"You are making a mistake, nurse," broke in George. "It is nothing at
all of that sort; mother is quite right. I am so far from wanting
to reproach you, that, on the contrary, I think she had not promised
enough, and I want to make you, for my part, another promise. When you
go away, when baby is old enough to be weaned, by way of thanking you,
we wish to give you--"

Madame Dupont broke in, hurriedly, "We wish to give you,--over and above
your wages, you understand--we wish to give you five hundred francs, and
perhaps a thousand, if the little one is altogether in good health. You
understand?"

The nurse stared at her, stupefied. "You will give me five hundred
francs--for myself?" She sought to comprehend the words. "But that was
not agreed, you don't have to do that at all."

"No," admitted Madame Dupont.

"But then," whispered the nurse, half to herself, "that's not natural."

"Yes," the other hurried on, "it is because the baby will have need of
extra care. You will have to take more trouble; you will have to give
it medicines; your task will be a little more delicate, a little more
difficult."

"Oh, yes; then it's so that I will be sure to take care of her? I
understand."

"Then it's agreed?" exclaimed Madame Dupont, with relief.

"Yes ma'am," said the nurse.

"And you won't come later on to make reproaches to us? We understand one
another clearly? We have warned you that the child is sick and that you
could catch the disease. Because of that, because of the special need of
care which she has, we promise you five hundred francs at the end of the
nursing. That's all right, is it?

"But, my lady," cried the nurse, all her cupidity awakened, "you spoke
just now of a thousand francs."

"Very well, then, a thousand francs."

George passed behind the nurse and got his mother by the arm, drawing
her to one side. "It would be a mistake," he whispered, "if we did not
make her sign an agreement to all that."

His mother turned to the nurse. "In order that there may be no
misunderstanding about the sum--you see how it is, I had forgotten
already that I had spoken of a thousand francs--we will draw up a little
paper, and you, on your part, will write one for us."

"Very good, ma'am," said the nurse, delighted with the idea of so
important a transaction. "Why, it's just as you do when you rent a
house!"

"Here comes the doctor," said the other. "Come, nurse, it is agreed?"

"Yes, ma'am," was the answer. But all the same, as she went out she
hesitated and looked sharply first at the doctor, and then at George
and his mother. She suspected that something was wrong, and she meant to
find out if she could.

The doctor seated himself in George's office chair, as if to write
a prescription. "The child's condition remains the same," he said;
"nothing disturbing."

"Doctor," said Madame Dupont, gravely, "from now on, you will be able
to devote your attention to the baby and the nurse without any scruple.
During your absence we have arranged matters nicely. The nurse has been
informed about the situation, and she does not mind. She has agreed to
accept an indemnity, and the amount has been stated."

But the doctor did not take these tidings as the other had hoped he
might. He replied: "The malady which the nurse will almost inevitably
contract in feeding the child is too grave in its consequences. Such
consequences might go as far as complete helplessness, even as far as
death. So I say that the indemnity, whatever it might be, would not pay
the damage."

"But," exclaimed the other, "she accepts it! She is mistress of herself,
and she has the right--"

"I am not at all certain that she has the right to sell her own health.
And I am certain that she has not the right to sell the health of her
husband and her children. If she becomes infected, it is nearly certain
that she will communicate the disease to them; the health and the life
of the children she might have later on would be greatly compromised.
Such things she cannot possibly sell. Come, madame, you must see that a
bargain of this sort isn't possible. If the evil has not been done, you
must do everything to avoid it."

"Sir," protested the mother, wildly, "you do not defend our interests!"

"Madame," was the reply, "I defend those who are weakest."

"If we had called in our own physician, who knows us," she protested,
"he would have taken sides with us."

The doctor rose, with a severe look on his face. "I doubt it," he said,
"but there is still time to call him."

George broke in with a cry of distress. "Sir, I implore you!"

And the mother in turn cried. "Don't abandon us, sir! You ought to make
allowances! If you knew what that child is to me! I tell you it seems to
me as if I had waited for her coming in order to die. Have pity upon us!
Have pity upon her! You speak of the weakest--it is not she who is the
weakest? You have seen her, you have seen that poor little baby, so
emaciated! You have seen what a heap of suffering she is already; and
cannot that inspire in you any sympathy? I pray you, sir--I pray you!"

"I pity her," said the doctor, "I would like to save her--and I will do
everything for her. But do not ask me to sacrifice to a feeble infant,
with an uncertain and probably unhappy life, the health of a sound and
robust woman. It is useless for us to continue such a discussion as
that."

Whereupon Madame Dupont leaped up in sudden frenzy. "Very Well!" she
exclaimed. "I will not follow your counsels, I will not listen to you!"

Said the doctor in a solemn voice: "There is already some one here who
regrets that he did not listen to me."

"Yes," moaned George, "to my misfortune, to the misfortune of all of
us."

But Madame Dupont was quite beside herself. "Very well!" she cried. "If
it is a fault, if it is a crime, if I shall have to suffer remorse for
it in this life, and all the punishments in the life to come--I accept
it all for myself alone! Myself alone, I take that responsibility! It is
frightfully heavy, but I accept it. I am profoundly a Christian sir; I
believe in eternal damnation; but to save my little child I consent to
lose my soul forever. Yes, my mind is made up--I will do everything to
save that life! Let God judge me; and if he condemns me, so much the
worse for me!"

The doctor answered: "That responsibility is one which I cannot let
you take, for it will be necessary that I should accept my part, and I
refuse it."

"What will you do?"

"I shall warn the nurse. I shall inform her exactly,
completely--something which you have not done, I feel sure."

"What?" cried Madame Dupont, wildly. "You, a doctor, called into a
family which gives you its entire confidence, which hands over to you
its most terrible secrets, its most horrible miseries--you would betray
them?"

"It is not a betrayal," replied the man, sternly. "It is something which
the law commands; and even if the law were silent, I would not permit a
family of worthy people to go astray so far as to commit a crime. Either
I give up the case, or you have the nursing of the child stopped."

"You threaten! You threaten!" cried the woman, almost frantic. "You
abuse the power which your knowledge gives you! You know that it is you
whose attention we need by that little cradle; you know that we believe
in you, and you threaten to abandon us! Your abandonment means the death
of the child, perhaps! And if I listen to you, if we stop the nursing of
the child--that also means her death!"

She flung up her hands like a mad creature. "And yet there is no other
means! Ah, my God! Why do you not let it be possible for me to sacrifice
myself? I would wish nothing more than to be able to do it--if only
you might take my old body, my old flesh, my old bones--if only I might
serve for something! How quickly would I consent that it should infect
me--this atrocious malady! How I would offer myself to it--with what
joys, with what delights--however disgusting, however frightful it
might be, however much to be dreaded! Yes, I would take it without fear,
without regret, if my poor old empty breasts might still give to the
child the milk which would preserve its life!"

She stopped; and George sprang suddenly from his seat, and fled to her
and flung himself down upon his knees before her, mingling his sobs and
tears with hers.

The doctor rose and moved about the room, unable any longer to control
his distress. "Oh, the poor people!" he murmured to himself. "The poor,
poor people!"

The storm passed, and Madame Dupont, who was a woman of strong
character, got herself together. Facing the doctor again, she said,
"Come, sir, tell us what we have to do."

"You must stop the nursing, and keep the woman here as a dry nurse, in
order that she may not go away to carry the disease elsewhere. Do not
exaggerate to yourself the danger which will result to the child. I am,
in truth, extremely moved by your suffering, and I will do everything--I
swear it to you--that your baby may recover as quickly as possible its
perfect health. I hope to succeed, and that soon. And now I must leave
you until tomorrow."

"Thank you, Doctor, thank you," said Madame Dupont, faintly.

The young man rose and accompanied the doctor to the door. He could not
bring himself to speak, but stood hanging his head until the other was
gone. Then he came to his mother. He sought to embrace her, but she
repelled him--without violence, but firmly.

Her son stepped back and put his hands over his face. "Forgive me!" he
said, in a broken voice. "Are we not unhappy enough, without hating each
other?"

His mother answered: "God has punished you for your debauch by striking
at your child."

But, grief-stricken as the young man was, he could not believe that.
"Impossible!" he said. "There is not even a man sufficiently wicked or
unjust to commit the act which you attribute to your God!"

"Yes," said his mother, sadly, "you believe in nothing."

"I believe in no such God as that," he answered.

A silence followed. When it was broken, it was by the entrance of the
nurse. She had opened the door of the room and had been standing there
for some moments, unheeded. Finally she stepped forward. "Madame," she
said, "I have thought it over; I would rather go back to my home at
once, and have only the five hundred francs."

Madame Dupont stared at her in consternation. "What is that you are
saying? You want to return to your home?"

"Yes, ma'am," was the answer.

"But," cried George, "only ten minutes ago you were not thinking of it."

"What has happened since then?" demanded Madame Dupont.

"I have thought it over."

"Thought it over?"

"Well, I am getting lonesome for my little one and for my husband."

"In the last ten minutes?" exclaimed George.

"There must be something else," his mother added. "Evidently there must
be something else."

"No!" insisted the nurse.

"But I say yes!"

"Well, I'm afraid the air of Paris might not be good for me."

"You had better wait and try it."

"I would rather go back at once to my home."

"Come, now," cried Madame Dupont, "tell us why?"

"I have told you. I have thought it over."

"Thought what over?"

"Well, I have thought."

"Oh," cried the mother, "what a stupid reply! 'I have thought it over! I
have thought it over!' Thought WHAT over, I want to know!"

"Well, everything."

"Don't you know how to tell us what?"

"I tell you, everything."

"Why," exclaimed Madame Dupont, "you are an imbecile!"

George stepped between his mother and the nurse. "Let me talk to her,"
he said.

The woman came back to her old formula: "I know that we're only poor
country people."

"Listen to me, nurse," said the young man. "Only a little while ago you
were afraid that we would send you away. You were satisfied with the
wages which my mother had fixed. In addition to those wages we had
promised you a good sum when you returned to your home. Now you tell
us that you want to go away. You see? All at once. There must be some
reason; let us understand it. There must certainly be a reason. Has
anybody done anything to you?"

"No, sir," said the woman, dropping her eyes.

"Well, then?"

"I have thought it over."

George burst out, "Don't go on repeating always the same thing--'I have
thought it over!' That's not telling us anything." Controlling himself,
he added, gently, "Come, tell me why you want to go away?"

There was a silence. "Well?" he demanded.

"I tell you, I have thought--"

George exclaimed in despair, "It's as if one were talking to a block of
wood!"

His mother took up the conversation again. "You must realize, you have
not the right to go away."

The woman answered, "I WANT to go."

"But I will not let you leave us."

"No," interrupted George angrily, "let her go; we cannot fasten her
here."

"Very well, then," cried the exasperated mother, "since you want to go,
go! But I have certainly the right to say to you that you are as stupid
as the animals on your farm!"

"I don't say that I am not," answered the woman.

"I will not pay you the month which has just begun, and you will pay
your railroad fare for yourself."

The other drew back with a look of anger. "Oho!" she cried. "We'll see
about that!"

"Yes, we'll see about it!" cried George. "And you will get out of here
at once. Take yourself off--I will have no more to do with you. Good
evening."

"No, George," protested his mother, "don't lose control of yourself."
And then, with a great effort at calmness, "That cannot be serious,
nurse! Answer me."

"I would rather go off right away to my home, and only have my five
hundred francs."

"WHAT?" cried George, in consternation.

"What's that you are telling me?" exclaimed Madame Dupont.

"Five hundred francs?" repeated her son.

"What five hundred francs?" echoed the mother.

"The five hundred francs you promised me," said the nurse.

"We have promised you five hundred francs? WE?"

"Yes."

"When the child should be weaned, and if we should be satisfied with
you! That was our promise."

"No. You said you would give them to me when I was leaving. Now I am
leaving, and I want them."

Madame Dupont drew herself up, haughtily. "In the first place," she
said, "kindly oblige me by speaking to me in another tone; do you
understand?"

The woman answered, "You have nothing to do but give me my money, and I
will say nothing more."

George went almost beside himself with rage at this. "Oh, it's like
that?" he shouted. "Very well; I'll show you!" And he sprang to the door
and opened it.

But the nurse never budged. "Give me my five hundred francs!" she said.

George seized her by the arm and shoved her toward the door. "You clear
out of here, do you understand me? And as quickly as you can!"

The woman shook her arm loose, and sneered into his face. "Come now,
you--you can talk to me a little more politely, eh?"

"Will you go?" shouted George, completely beside himself. "Will you go,
or must I go out and look for a policeman?"

"A policeman!" demanded the woman. "For what?"

"To put you outside! You are behaving yourself like a thief."

"A thief? I? What do you mean?"

"I mean that you are demanding money which doesn't belong to you."

"More than that," broke in Madame Dupont, "you are destroying that poor
little baby! You are a wicked woman!"

"I will put you out myself!" shouted George, and seized her by the arm
again.

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" retorted the nurse. "Then you really want
me to tell you why I am going away?"

"Yes, tell me!" cried he.

His mother added, "Yes, yes!"

She would have spoken differently had she chanced to look behind her and
seen Henriette, who at that moment appeared in the doorway. She had been
about to go out, when her attention had been caught by the loud voices.
She stood now, amazed, clasping her hands together, while the nurse,
shaking her fist first at Madame Dupont and then at her son, cried
loudly, "Very well! I'm going away because I don't want to catch a
filthy disease here!"

"HUSH!" cried Madame Dupont, and sprang toward her, her hands clenched
as if she would choke her.

"Be silent!" cried George, wild with terror.

But the woman rushed on without dropping her voice, "Oh, you need not
be troubling yourselves for fear anyone should overhear! All the world
knows it! Your other servants were listening with me at your door! They
heard every word your doctor said!"

"Shut up!" screamed George.

Her mother seized the woman fiercely by the arm. "Hold your tongue!" she
hissed.

But again the other shook herself loose. She was powerful, and now her
rage was not to be controlled. She waved her hands in the air, shouting,
"Let me be, let me be! I know all about your brat--that you will never
be able to raise it--that it's rotten because it's father has a filthy
disease he got from a woman of the street!"

She got no farther. She was interrupted by a frenzied shriek from
Henriette. The three turned, horrified, just in time to see her fall
forward upon the floor, convulsed.

"My God!" cried George. He sprang toward her, and tried to lift her, but
she shrank from him, repelling him with a gesture of disgust, of hatred,
of the most profound terror. "Don't touch me!" she screamed, like a
maniac. "Don't touch me!"



CHAPTER V

It was in vain that Madame Dupont sought to control her daughter-in-law.
Henriette was beside herself, frantic, she could not be brought to
listen to any one. She rushed into the other room, and when the older
woman followed her, shrieked out to be left alone. Afterwards, she fled
to her own room and barred herself in, and George and his mother waited
distractedly for hours until she should give some sign.

Would she kill herself, perhaps? Madame Dupont hovered on guard about
the door of the nursery for fear that the mother in her fit of insanity
might attempt some harm to her child.

The nurse had slunk away abashed when she saw the consequences of
her outburst. By the time she had got her belongings packed, she had
recovered her assurance. She wanted her five hundred; also she wanted
her wages and her railroad fare home. She wanted them at once, and she
would not leave until she got them. George and his mother, in the midst
of all their anguish of mind, had to go through a disgusting scene with
this coarse and angry woman.

They had no such sum of money in the house, and the nurse refused to
accept a check. She knew nothing about a check. It was so much paper,
and might be some trick that they were playing on her. She kept
repeating her old formula, "I am nothing but a poor country woman." Nor
would she be contented with the promise that she would receive the money
the next day. She seemed to be afraid that if she left the house she
would be surrendering her claim. So at last the distracted George to
sally forth and obtain the cash from some tradesmen in the neighborhood.

The woman took her departure. They made her sign a receipt in full for
all claims and they strove to persuade themselves that this made them
safe; but in their hearts they had no real conviction of safety. What
was the woman's signature, or her pledged word, against the cupidity of
her husband and relatives. Always she would have the dreadful secret
to hold over them, and so they would live under the shadow of possible
blackmail.

Later in the day Henriette sent for her mother-in-law. She was white,
her eyes were swollen with weeping, and she spoke in a voice choked with
sobs. She wished to return at once to her father's home, and to take
little Gervaise with her. Madame Dupont cried out in horror at this
proposition, and argued and pleaded and wept--but all to no purpose. The
girl was immovable. She would not stay under her husband's roof, and she
would take her child with her. It was her right, and no one could refuse
her.

The infant had been crying for hours, but that made no difference.
Henriette insisted that a cab should be called at once.

So she went back to the home of Monsieur Loches and told him the hideous
story. Never before in her life had she discussed such subjects with
any one, but now in her agitation she told her father all. As George had
declared to the doctor, Monsieur Loches was a person of violent temper;
at this revelation, at the sight of his daughter's agony, he was almost
beside himself. His face turned purple, the veins stood out on his
forehead; a trembling seized him. He declared that he would kill
George--there was nothing else to do. Such a scoundrel should not be
permitted to live.

The effort which Henriette had to make to restrain him had a calming
effect upon herself. Bitter and indignant as she was, she did not want
George to be killed. She clung to her father, beseeching him to promise
her that he would not do such a thing; and all that day and evening she
watched him, unwilling to let him out of her sight.

There was a matter which claimed her immediate attention, and which
helped to withdraw them from the contemplation of their own sufferings.
The infant must be fed and cared for--the unhappy victim of other
people's sins, whose life was now imperiled. A dry nurse must be found
at once, a nurse competent to take every precaution and give the
child every chance. This nurse must be informed of the nature of the
trouble--another matter which required a great deal of anxious thought.

That evening came Madame Dupont, tormented by anxiety about the child's
welfare, and beseeching permission to help take care of it. It was
impossible to refuse such a request. Henriette could not endure to
see her, but the poor grandmother would come and sit for hours in the
nursery, watching the child and the nurse, in silent agony.

This continued for days, while poor George wandered about at home,
suffering such torment of mind as can hardly be imagined. Truly, in
these days he paid for his sins; he paid a thousand-fold in agonized and
impotent regret. He looked back upon the course of his life, and traced
one by one the acts which had led him and those he loved into this
nightmare of torment. He would have been willing to give his life if he
could have undone those acts. But avenging nature offered him no such
easy deliverance as that. We shudder as we read the grim words of the
Jehovah of the ancient Hebrews; and yet not all the learning of modern
times has availed to deliver us from the cruel decree, that the sins of
the fathers shall be visited upon the children.

George wrote notes to his wife, imploring her forgiveness. He poured
out all his agony and shame to her, begging her to see him just once, to
give him a chance to plead his defense. It was not much of a defense, to
be sure; it was only that he had done no worse than the others did--only
that he was a wretched victim of ignorance. But he loved her, he had
proven that he loved her, and he pleaded that for the sake of their
child she would forgive him.

When all this availed nothing, he went to see the doctor, whose advice
he had so shamefully neglected. He besought this man to intercede for
him--which the doctor, of course, refused to do. It was an extra-medical
matter, he said, and George was absurd to expect him to meddle in it.

But, as a matter of fact, the doctor had already been interceding--he
had gone farther in pleading George's cause than he was willing to have
George know. For Monsieur Loches had paid him a visit--his purpose being
to ask the doctor to continue attendance upon the infant, and also
to give Henriette a certificate which she could use in her suit for a
divorce from her husband.

So inevitably there had been a discussion of the whole question between
the two men. The doctor had granted the first request, but refused the
second. In the first place, he said, there was a rule of professional
secrecy which would prevent him. And when the father-in-law requested
to know if the rule of professional secrecy compelled him to protect
a criminal against honest people, the doctor answered that even if
his ethics permitted it, he would still refuse the request. "I would
reproach myself forever," he said, "if I had aided you to obtain such a
divorce."

"Then," cried the old man, vehemently, "because you profess such and
such theories, because the exercise of your profession makes you the
constant witness of such miseries--therefore it is necessary that my
daughter should continue to bear that man's name all her life!"

The doctor answered, gently, "Sir, I understand and respect your grief.
But believe me, you are not in a state of mind to decide about these
matters now."

"You are mistaken," declared the other, controlling himself with an
effort. "I have been thinking about nothing else for days. I have
discussed it with my daughter, and she agrees with me. Surely, sir, you
cannot desire that my daughter should continue to live with a man who
has struck her so brutal, so cowardly, a blow."

"If I refuse your request," the doctor answered, "it is in the interest
of your daughter." Then, seeing the other's excitement returning, he
continued, "In your state of mind, Monsieur Loches, I know that you will
probably be abusing me before five minutes has passed. But that will not
trouble me. I have seen many cases. And since I have made the mistake
of letting myself be trapped into this discussion, I must explain to you
the reason for my attitude. You ask of me a certificate so that you may
prove in court that your son-in-law is afflicted with syphilis."

"Precisely," said the other.

"And have you not reflected upon this--that at the same time you will be
publicly attesting that your daughter has been exposed to the contagion?
With such an admission, an admission officially registered in the public
records, do you believe that she will find it easy to re-marry later
on?"

"She will never re-marry," said the father.

"She says that today, but can you affirm that she will say the same
thing five years from now, ten years from now? I tell you you will
not obtain that divorce, because I will most certainly refuse you the
necessary certificate."

"Then," cried the other, "I will find other means of establishing
proofs. I will have the child examined by another doctor!"

The other answered. "Then you do not find that that poor little one has
been already sufficiently handicapped at the outset of its life? Your
granddaughter has a physical defect. Do you wish to add to that a
certificate of hereditary syphilis, which will follow her all her life?"

Monsieur Loches sprang from his chair. "You mean that if the victims
seek to defend themselves, they will be struck the harder! You mean that
the law gives me no weapon against a man who, knowing his condition,
takes a young girl, sound, trusting, innocent, and befouls her with the
result of his debauches--makes her the mother of a poor little creature,
whose future is such that those who love her the most do not know
whether they ought to pray for her life, or for her immediate
deliverance? Sir," he continued, in his orator's voice, "that man has
inflicted upon the woman he has married a supreme insult. He has made
her the victim of the most odious assault. He has degraded her--he has
brought her, so to speak, into contact with the woman of the streets. He
has created between her and that common woman I know not what mysterious
relationship. It is the poisoned blood of the prostitute which poisons
my daughter and her child; that abject creature, she lives, she lives in
us! She belongs to our family--he has given her a seat at our hearth! He
has soiled the imagination and the thoughts of my poor child, as he
has soiled her body. He has united forever in her soul the idea of
love which she has placed so high, with I know not what horrors of the
hospitals. He has tainted her in her dignity and her modesty, in her
love as well as in her baby. He has struck her down with physical and
moral decay, he has overwhelmed her with vileness. And yet the law is
such, the customs of society are such, that the woman cannot separate
herself from that man save by the aid of legal proceedings whose scandal
will fall upon herself and upon her child!"

Monsieur Loches had been pacing up and down the room as he spoke, and
now he clenched his fists in sudden fury.

"Very well! I will not address myself to the law. Since I learned the
truth I have been asking myself if it was not my duty to find that
monster and to put a bullet into his head, as one does to a mad dog. I
don't know what weakness, what cowardice, has held me back, and decided
me to appeal to the law. Since the law will not protect me, I will seek
justice for myself. Perhaps his death will be a good warning for the
others!"

The doctor shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that this was no affair
of his and that he would not try to interfere. But he remarked, quietly:
"You will be tried for your life."

"I shall be acquitted!" cried the other.

"Yes, but after a public revelation of all your miseries. You will make
the scandal greater, the miseries greater--that is all. And how do you
know but that on the morrow of your acquittal, you will find yourself
confronting another court, a higher and more severe one? How do you
know but that your daughter, seized at last by pity for the man you have
killed, will not demand to know by what right you have acted so, by what
right you have made an orphan of her child? How can you know but that
her child also may some day demand an accounting of you?"

Monsieur Loches let his hands fall, and stood, a picture of crushed
despair. "Tell me then," he said, in a faint voice, "what ought I to
do?"

"Forgive!"

For a while the doctor sat looking at him. "Sir," he said, at last,
"tell me one thing. You are inflexible; you feel you have the right to
be inflexible. But are you really so certain that it was not your duty,
once upon a time, to save your daughter from the possibility of such
misfortune?"

"What?" cried the other. "My duty? What do you mean?"

"I mean this, sir. When that marriage was being discussed, you certainly
took precautions to inform yourself about the financial condition of
your future son-in-law. You demanded that he should prove to you that
his stocks and bonds were actual value, listed on the exchange. Also,
you obtained some information about his character. In fact, you forgot
only one point, the most important of all--that was, to inquire if he
was in good health. You never did that."

The father-in-law's voice had become faint. "No," he said.

"But why not?"

"Because that is not the custom."

"Very well, but that ought to be the custom. Surely the father of a
family, before he gives his daughter to a man, should take as much
precaution as a business concern which accepts an employee."

"You are right," was the reply, "there should be a law." The man spoke
as a deputy, having authority in these matters.

But the doctor cried, "No, no, sir! Do not make a new law. We have
too many already. There is no need of it. It would suffice that people
should know a little better what syphilis is. The custom would establish
itself very quickly for a suitor to add to all the other documents
which he presents, a certificate of a doctor, as proof that he could
be received into a family without bringing a pestilence with him. That
would be very simple. Once let the custom be established, then the
suitor would go to the doctor for a certificate of health, just as he
goes to the priest for a certificate that he has confessed; and by that
means you would prevent a great deal of suffering in the world. Or let
me put it another way, sir. Nowadays, before you conclude a marriage,
you get the lawyers of the two families together. It would be of at
least equal importance to get their two doctors together. You see, sir,
your inquiry concerning your son-in-law was far from complete. So your
daughter may fairly ask you, why you, being a man, being a father who
ought to know these things, did not take as much care of her health as
you took of her fortune. So it is, sir, that I say to you, forgive!"

But Monsieur Loches said again, "Never!"

And again the doctor sat and watched him for a minute. "Come, sir," he
began, finally, "since it is necessary to employ the last argument, I
will do so. To be so severe and so pitiless--are you yourself without
sin?"

The other answered, "I have never had a shameful disease."

"I do not ask you that," interrupted the doctor. "I ask you if you have
never exposed yourself to the chance of having it." And then, reading
the other's face, he went on, in a tone of quiet certainty. "Yes, you
have exposed yourself. Then, sir, it was not virtue that you had; it
was good fortune. That is one of the things which exasperate me the
most--that term 'shameful disease' which you have just used. Like all
other diseases, that is one of our misfortunes, and it is never shameful
to be unfortunate--even if one has deserved it." The doctor paused,
and then with some excitement he went on: "Come, sir, come, we must
understand each other. Among men the most exacting, among those who with
their middle-class prudery dare not pronounce the name of syphilis,
or who make the most terrifying faces, the most disgusted, when they
consent to speak of it--who regard the syphilitic as sinners--I should
wish to know how many there are who have never exposed themselves to a
similar misadventure. They and they alone have the right to speak. How
many are there? Among a thousand men, are there four? Very well, then.
Excepting those four, between all the rest and the syphilitic there is
nothing but the difference of chance."

There came into the doctor's voice at this moment a note of intense
feeling; for these were matters of which evidence came to him every day.
"I tell you, sir, that such people are deserving of sympathy, because
they are suffering. If they have committed a fault, they have at least
the plea that they are expiating it. No, sir, let me hear no more of
that hypocrisy. Recall your own youth, sir. That which afflicts your
son-in-law, you have deserved it just as much as he--more than he,
perhaps. Therefore, have pity on him; have for him the toleration which
the unpunished criminal ought to have for the criminal less fortunate
than himself upon whom the penalty has fallen. Is that not so?"

Monsieur Loches had been listening to this discourse with the feeling of
a thief before the bar. There was nothing that he could answer. "Sir,"
he stammered, "as you present this thing to me--"

"But am I not right?" insisted the doctor.

"Perhaps you are," the other admitted. "But--I cannot say all that to my
daughter, to persuade her to go back to her husband."

"You can give her other arguments," was the answer.

"What arguments, in God's name?"

"There is no lack of them. You will say to her that a separation would
be a misfortune for all; that her husband is the only one in the world
who would be devoted enough to help her save her child. You will say to
her that out of the ruins of her first happiness she can build herself
another structure, far stronger. And, sir, you will add to that whatever
your good heart may suggest--and we will arrange so that the next child
of the pair shall be sound and vigorous."

Monsieur Loches received this announcement with the same surprise that
George himself had manifested. "Is that possible?" he asked.

The doctor cried: "Yes, yes, yes--a thousand times yes! There is a
phrase which I repeat on every occasion, and which I would wish to post
upon the walls. It is that syphilis is an imperious mistress, who only
demands that one should recognize her power. She is terrible for
those who think her insignificant, and gentle with those who know how
dangerous she is. You know that kind of mistress--who is only vexed when
she is neglected. You may tell this to your daughter--you will restore
her to the arms of her husband, from whom she has no longer anything
to fear, and I will guarantee that you will be a happy grandfather two
years from now."

Monsieur Loches at last showed that he was weakened in his resolution.

"Doctor," he said, "I do not know that I can ever go so far as
forgiveness, but I promise you that I will do no irreparable act, and
that I will not oppose a reconciliation if after the lapse of some
time--I cannot venture to say how long--my poor child should make up her
mind to a reconciliation."

"Very good," said the other. "But let me add this: If you have another
daughter, take care to avoid the fault which you committed when you
married off the first."

"But," said the old man, "I did not know."

"Ah, surely!" cried the other. "You did not know! You are a father, and
you did not know! You are a deputy, you have assumed the responsibility
and the honor of making our laws--and you did not know! You are ignorant
about syphilis, just as you probably are ignorant about alcoholism and
tuberculosis."