I opened the door. Every one was listening on the other side of it. My father, my two aunts, still holding in their hands, one her rosary and the other her Voltaire, my own nurse, poor old woman, who had come in a cab.
“Well,” they exclaimed anxiously, “well?”
“It is all over, it is a boy; go in, he is there.”
You can not imagine how happy I was to see on all their faces the reflection of my own emotion. They embraced me and shook hands with me, and I responded to all these marks of affection without exactly knowing where they came from.
“Damn it all!” muttered my father, in my ear, holding me in his arms, with his stick still in his hand and his hat on his head, “Damn it all!”
But he could not finish, however brave he might wish to appear; a big tear was glittering at the tip of his nose. He muttered “Hum!” under his moustache and finally burst into tears on my shoulder, saying: “I can not help it.”
And I did likewise—I could not help it either.
However, everybody was flocking round the grandmamma, who lifted up a corner of her apron and said:
“How pretty he is, the darling, how pretty! Nurse, warm the linen, give me the caps.”
“Smile at your aunty,” said my aunt, jangling her rosary above the baby’s head, “smile at aunty.”