A woman of the people, knowing nothing of the circumstances of fashionable life, save from a few peeps at their outward pomp and the vague tales of concierges, footmen, and cooks, she pictured her boy at twenty more beautiful than an archangel, his breast glittering with decorations, in a drawing-room full of flowers, amid a bevy of fashionable ladies with manners every whit as genteel as had the actresses at the Gymnase:
But for the nonce, on mother's breast, Sweet wee gallant, take thy rest.
Presently the vision changed; now her boy was standing up gowned in Court, by his eloquence saving the life and honour of some illustrious client:
But for the nonce, on mother's breast, Sweet wee pleader, take thy rest.
Presently again he was an officer under fire, in a brilliant uniform, on a prancing charger, victorious in battle, like the great Generals whose portraits she had seen one Sunday at Versailles:
But for the nonce, on mother's breast, Sweet wee general, take thy rest.
But when night was creeping into the room, a new picture would dazzle her eyes, a picture this of other and incomparably greater glories.
Proud in her motherhood, yet humble too at heart, she was gazing from the dim recesses of a sanctuary at her son, her Jean, clad in sacerdotal vestments, lifting the monstrance in the vaulted choir censed by the beating wings of half-seen Cherubim. And she would tremble awestruck as if she were the mother of a god, this poor sick work-woman whose puling child lay beside her drooping in the poisoned air of a back-shop:
But for the nonce, on mother's breast,
My sweet boy-bishop, take thy rest.
One evening, as her husband handed her a cooling drink, she said to him in a tone of regret: