Mme. Le Quesnoy, who had remained behind with her daughter, reassured her, although she was herself a little anxious; for this grandson, the first and only one, was very close to the heart of his grandparents and lighted up their mourning with a hope. A distant clamor which grew deeper as it approached increased the trouble of the two women. Running to the window they listened—choral songs, gunshots, clamors, bells ringing like mad! And all of a sudden the Englishwoman who is looking out on the street cries: “Madame, it is the baptism!”
And so it was the baptism, this noise like a riot and these howlings as of cannibals around the stake.
“Oh, this South, this South!” repeated the young mother, now very much frightened, for she feared that her little one would be suffocated in the press.
But not at all; here he was, very alive indeed, in splendid case, waving his short little arms with his eyes wide open, wearing the long baptismal robe whose decorations Rosalie herself had embroidered and whose laces she herself had sewed on; it was the robe meant for the other; and so it is her two sons in one, the dead and the living one, whom she owns to-day.
“He did not make a cry, or ask for milk a single time the whole journey!” Aunt Portal affirms, and then goes on to relate in her picturesque way the triumphal tour of the town, whilst in the old hotel, which has suddenly become the old house for ovations, all the doors slam and the servants rush out into the porch where the musicians are being regaled with gazeuse. The musical bursts resound and the panes tremble in every window. The old Le Quesnoys have gone out into the garden to get away from this jollity which overwhelms them with grief, and since Roumestan is about to make a speech from the balcony, Aunt Portal and Polly the Englishwoman run quickly into the drawing-room to listen.
“If Madame would be so kind as to hold the baby?” asks the wet-nurse, as consumed with curiosity as a wild woman. And Rosalie is only too happy to remain behind with her child upon her knees. From her window she can see the banners glittering in the wind and the crowd densely crushed together and spellbound by the words of her great man. Phrases from his speech reach her now and then, but more than all else she hears the tone of that captivating and moving voice, and a sorrowful shudder passes through her at thought of all the evil which has come to her by way of that eloquence, so ready to lie and to dupe others.
At last it is all over; she feels that she has reached a point where deceptions and wounds can hurt her no more; she has a child, and that sums up all her happiness, all her dreams! And holding him up like a buckler she hugs the dear little creature to her breast and questions him very low and very near by, as if she were looking for some response, or some resemblance in the sketchy features of this unformed little countenance, these dainty lineaments which seem to have been impressed by a caress in wax and already show a sensual, violent mouth, a nose curved in search of adventures and a soft and square chin.
“And will you also be a liar? Will you pass your life betraying others and yourself, breaking those innocent hearts who have never done you other evil than to believe in and love you? Will you be possessed of a light and cruel inconstancy, taking life like an amateur and a singer of cavatinas? Will you make a merchandise of words without bothering yourself as to their real value and their connection with your thought, so long as they are brilliant and resounding?”
And putting her lips in a kiss upon that little ear which the light strands of hair surround:
“Tell me, are you going to be a Roumestan?”