We made him cheering Sunday visits, Madame Panpan, Louis, the little Henri, and I, and infringed many a rule of the hospital in regard to his regimen. There was a charcutier living close to the outer walks, and when nothing else could be had, we purchased some of his curiously prepared delicacies, and smuggled them in under various guises. To him they were delicious morsels amid the uniform soup and bouillon of the hospital, and I dare say did him neither good nor harm.
Poor Madame Panpan! apart from the unceasing exertions which her difficult position demanded of her; apart from the harassing days, the sleepless nights, and pecuniary deficiencies which somehow never were made up; apart from the shadow of death which hovered ever near her; and the unvarying labours which pulled at her fingers, and strained at her eyes, so that her efforts seemed still
devoted to one ever unfinished corset,—there arose another trouble where it was least expected; and alas! I was the unconscious cause of a new embarrassment. I was accused of being her lover. Numberless accusations rose up against us. Had I not played at pat-ball with Madame in the Bois de Boulogne? Yes, pardi! while Panpan lay stretched upon the grass a laughing spectator of the game; and which was brought to an untimely conclusion by my breaking my head against the branch of a tree. But had I not accompanied Madame alone to the Champs Elysées to witness the jeu-de-feu on the last fête of July? My good woman, did I not carry Louis pick-a-back the whole way? and was not the crowd so dense and fearful, that our progress to the Champs Elysées was barred at its very mouth by the fierce tornado of the multitude, and the trampling to death of three unhappy mortals, whose shrieks and groans still echo in my ear? and was it not at the risk of life or limb that I fought my way along the Rue de la Madeleine, with little Louis clinging round my neck, and Madame hanging on to my coat-tail? Amid the swaying and eddying of the crowd, the mounted Garde Municipale came dashing into the thickest of the press, to snatch little children, and even women, from impending death, and bear them to a place of safety. And if we did take a bottle of Strassburger beer on the Boulevards, when at length we found a freer place to breathe in, faint and reeling as we were, pray where was the harm, and who would not have done as much? Ah, Madame! if you had seen, as I did, that when we reached home the first thing poor Madame Panpan came to do, was to fall upon her husband’s neck, and in a voice broken with sobs, and as though her heart would break, to thank that merciful God who had spared her in her trouble, that she might still work for him and his children! you would not be so ready with your blame.
But there was a heavier accusation still. Did you not, sir, entertain Madame to supper in the Rue de Roule? with the utmost extravagance too, not to mention the omelette soufflée with which you must needs tickle your appetites, and expressly order for the occasion? And more than that: did you not then take coffee in the Rue St. Honoré, and play at dominoes with Madame in the salon? Alas, yes! all this is true, and the cause still more true and more sad; for it was under the terrible impression that Madame Panpan and her two children—for they were both with us, you will remember, even little Henri—had not eaten of one tolerable meal throughout
a whole week, that these unpardonable acts were committed on the Sunday. An omelette soufflée, you know, must he ordered; but as for the dominoes, I admit that that was an indiscretion.
Père Panpan drooped and drooped. The cord of his gymnasium swung uselessly above his head; he tottered no more along the corridors of the hospital. He had ceased to be the pet of the medical profession. His malady was obstinate and impertinent; it could neither be explained nor driven away; and as all the deep theories propounded respecting it, or carried into practical operation for its removal, proved to be mere elaborate fancies, or useless experiments, the medical profession—happily for Panpan—retired from the field in disgust.
“I do believe it was the button!” exclaimed Panpan, one Sunday afternoon, with a strange light gleaming in his eyes. Madame replied only with a sob. “You have seen many of them?” he abruptly demanded of me.
“Of what?”
“Buttons.”
“There are a great many of them made in England,” I replied. Where were we wandering?