“Who is it that is coming this evening?” he asked. “My uncle has gone off to Pouzauges to meet somebody, and ever so many bedrooms are being got ready.”
“I expect,” said Gilbert, considering, “that it is Madame d’Aucourt. It is about the time that she generally comes.”
“Does she always come?” enquired his cousin. “Who is she? Will she stay long?”
“She is a friend of mamma’s,” Gilbert informed him. “Yes, she comes every year, and she stays about two months. Last time she brought a baby.”
“A what!” exclaimed Louis. The young hen that he had just captured uttered protests against the tightness of his interested grip.
“A baby—a child.”
“Why?”
“Why?” repeated his senior scornfully. “How stupid you are, Louis! Because it belongs to her, I suppose, and she likes to have it with her. I shouldn’t. It only cries.”
Louis released his chicken. “Do all babies cry?”
“I don’t know. Yes; the one Madame Beaudrier has just now does.”