“Let me tell you, monsieur, that your son is melting——”
The old man fell back on his couch and gazed anxiously at his servant, exclaiming:
“Melting! my son! Great heaven! has he fallen into the stove?”
“When I say melting, my dear master, I mean simply falling away, that he has lost five ounces, neither more nor less, since the day he was born.”
“The devil take you, Jasmin, you gave me a horrible fright! I wonder if you will never be any less stupid!”
“It was my attachment for you, monsieur, that made me think that I ought to tell you. Turlurette has weighed our little Chérubin, and she is sure of what she says. She doesn’t dare to tell madame, but I thought it was better to tell you; for if the child goes on like this, in a few months he won’t weigh anything at all.”
Monsieur de Grandvilain sadly shook his head.
“In truth,” he said, “my son is not making any progress. He is taking on a yellowish color that surprises me, for both his mother and I are very white. Ah! my poor Jasmin, I am beginning to think that we should have children when we are young, because then they inherit our strength.”
“Nonsense, monsieur! You are strong enough! You are a perfect horse when you choose! Our Chérubin was magnificent when he was born, as you must remember. If he is doing badly now, it’s only because he doesn’t eat enough. Madame fondles him and pets him—that’s all very well; but perhaps the little rascal would prefer some wine and a cutlet.”
“A cutlet! Are you mad, Jasmin? Whoever heard of giving cutlets to children three months old?”