Émile Zola - Fruitfulness

On the day of the Froments’ visit Seguin had gone out early in the morning, and when they arrived he had not yet returned. Thus the lunch was for a short time kept waiting, and during the interval Celeste, the maid, entered the room where the visitors sat near her mistress, who was stretched upon a sofa, looking a perfect picture of distress. Valentine turned a questioning glance on the servant, who forthwith replied:

“No, madame, Monsieur has not come back yet. But that woman of my village is here. You know, madame, the woman I spoke to you about, Sophie Couteau, La Couteau as we call her at Rougemont, who brings nurses to Paris?”

“Well, what of it?” exclaimed Valentine, on the point of ordering Celeste to leave the room, for it seemed to her quite outrageous to be disturbed in this manner.

“Well, madame, she’s here; and as I told you before, if you would intrust her with the matter now she would find a very good wet nurse for you in the country, and bring her here whenever she’s wanted.”

La Couteau had been standing behind the door, which had remained ajar, and scarcely had Celeste finished than, without waiting for an invitation, she boldly entered the room. She was a quick little wizened woman, with certain peasant ways, but considerably polished by her frequent journeys to Paris. So far as her small keen eyes and pointed nose went her long face was not unpleasant, but its expression of good nature was marred by her hard mouth, her thin lips, suggestive of artfulness and cupidity. Her gown of dark woollen stuff, her black cape, black mittens, and black cap with yellow ribbons, gave her the appearance of a respectable countrywoman going to mass in her Sunday best.

“Have you been a nurse?” Valentine inquired, as she scrutinized her.

“Yes, madame,” replied La Couteau, “but that was ten years ago, when I was only twenty. It seemed to me that I wasn’t likely to make much money by remaining a nurse, and so I preferred to set up as an agent to bring others to Paris.”

As she spoke she smiled, like an intelligent woman who feels that those who give their services as wet nurses to bourgeois families are simply fools and dupes. However, she feared that she might have said too much on the point, and so she added: “But one does what one can, eh, madame? The doctor told me that I should never do for a nurse again, and so I thought that I might perhaps help the poor little dears in another manner.”

“And you bring wet nurses to the Paris offices?”

“Yes, madame, twice a month. I supply several offices, but more particularly Madame Broquette’s office in the Rue Roquepine. It’s a very respectable place, where one runs no risk of being deceived – And so, if you like, madame, I will choose the very best I can find for you – the pick of the bunch, so to say. I know the business thoroughly, and you can rely on me.”

As her mistress did not immediately reply, Celeste ventured to intervene, and began by explaining how it happened that La Couteau had called that day.

“When she goes back into the country, madame, she almost always takes a baby with her, sometimes a nurse’s child, and sometimes the child of people who are not well enough off to keep a nurse in the house. And she takes these children to some of the rearers in the country. She just now came to see me before going round to my friend Madame Menoux, whose baby she is to take away with her.”

Valentine became interested. This Madame Menoux was a haberdasher in the neighborhood and a great friend of Celeste’s. She had married a former soldier, a tall handsome fellow, who now earned a hundred and fifty francs a month as an attendant at a museum. She was very fond of him, and had bravely set up a little shop, the profits from which doubled their income, in such wise that they lived very happily and almost at their ease. Celeste, who frequently absented herself from her duties to spend hours gossiping in Madame Menoux’s little shop, was forever being scolded for this practice; but in the present instance Valentine, full of anxiety and curiosity, did not chide her. The maid was quite proud at being questioned, and informed her mistress that Madame Menoux’s baby was a fine little boy, and that the mother had been attended by a certain Madame Rouche, who lived at the lower end of the Rue du Rocher.

“It was I who recommended her,” continued the servant, “for a friend of mine whom she had attended had spoken to me very highly of her. No doubt she has not such a good position as Madame Bourdieu, who has so handsome a place in the Rue de Miromesnil, but she is less expensive, and so very kind and obliging.”

Then Celeste suddenly ceased speaking, for she noticed that Mathieu’s eyes were fixed upon her, and this, for reasons best known to herself, made her feel uncomfortable. He on his side certainly placed no confidence in this big dark girl with a head like that of a horse, who, it seemed to him, knew far too much.

Marianne joined in the conversation. “But why,” asked she, “why does not this Madame Menoux, whom you speak about, keep her baby with her?”

Thereupon La Couteau turned a dark harsh glance upon this lady visitor, who, whatever course she might take herself, had certainly no right to prevent others from doing business.

“Oh! it’s impossible,” exclaimed Celeste, well pleased with the diversion. “Madame Menoux’s shop is no bigger than my pocket-handkerchief, and at the back of it there is only one little room where she and her husband take their meals and sleep. And that room, too, overlooks a tiny courtyard where one can neither see nor breathe. The baby would not live a week in such a place. And, besides, Madame Menoux would not have time to attend to the child. She has never had a servant, and what with waiting on customers and having to cook meals in time for her husband’s return from the museum, she never has a moment to spare. Oh! if she could, she would be very happy to keep the little fellow with her.”

“It is true,” said Marianne sadly; “there are some poor mothers whom I pity with all my heart. This person you speak of is not in poverty, and yet is reduced to this cruel separation. For my part, I should not be able to exist if a child of mine were taken away from me to some unknown spot and given to another woman.”

La Couteau doubtless interpreted this as an attack upon herself. Assuming the kindly demeanor of one who dotes on children, the air which she always put on to prevail over hesitating mothers, she replied: “Oh, Rougemont is such a very pretty place. And then it’s not far from Bayeux, so that folks are by no means savages there. The air is so pure, too, that people come there to recruit their health. And, besides, the little ones who are confided to us are well cared for, I assure you. One would have to be heartless to do otherwise than love such little angels.”

However, like Celeste, she relapsed into silence on seeing how significantly Mathieu was looking at her. Perhaps, in spite of her rustic ways, she understood that there was a false ring in her voice. Besides, of what use was her usual patter about the salubrity of the region, since that lady, Madame Seguin, wished to have a nurse at her house? So she resumed: “Then it’s understood, madame, I will bring you the best we have, a real treasure.”

Valentine, now a little tranquillized as to her fears for herself, found strength to speak out. “No, no, I won’t pledge myself in advance. I will send to see the nurses you bring to the office, and we shall see if there is one to suit me.”

Then, without occupying herself further about the woman, she turned to Marianne, and asked: “Shall you nurse your baby yourself?”

“Certainly, as I did with the others. We have very decided opinions on that point, my husband and I.”