| De quels ravissements nous privent nosintempérances. | ||
| JOUBERT. | ||
WHEN Annette’s baby—a boy—was born, Gertrude was the first to go and see it. She took with her a woollen bonnet and a horn spoon.
Having become capitalists with the enormous sum that had come to Annette, they had left their lodgings for a little house in a row of little houses each of seven rooms and a scullery. They had a little maid, who opened the door to Gertrude. She was a tiny wizened creature but very voluble. Gertrude was not a yard inside the house when she had a full description of the baby, its layette, Annette’s condition and appearance, and the devotion of Bennett, who, she said, “never had no eyes for nothink ’cept ’is ugly little wife.”
Gertrude was shown upstairs, to find Annette sitting up chattering to an enormously fat woman, who was introduced to her as Mrs. Entwistle. They were talking about Serge, of whom the fat woman expressed the most glowing admiration.
The baby, a very little one, ugly and blotched, was handed to Gertrude, and she was properly ecstatic over it. Mrs. Entwistle said:
“Eeh! Ow I did ’ave to slap ’is little buttocks to make ’im cry!”
“Slap?” said Gertrude, rather horrified.
“Eeh! Miss, didn’t ye know that? Well, I never. Sometimes you ’ave to fair leather into ’em.”
Gertrude held the baby in her arms and hugged him close to her breast. She was feeling very mournful, and envy tugged at her heart. She said:
“It’s a very little house you live in.”