Having opened a door which communicated with the common room, Madame Broquette, assuming the most noble airs, leisurely introduced the pick of her nurses, in groups of three, each with her infant in her arms.  About a dozen were thus inspected:  short ones with big heavy limbs, tall ones suggesting maypoles, dark ones with coarse stiff hair, fair ones with the whitest of skins, quick ones and slow ones, ugly ones and others who were pleasant-looking.  All, however, wore the same nervous, silly smile, all swayed themselves with embarrassed timidity, the anxious mien of the bondswoman at the slave market, who fears that she may not find a purchaser.  They clumsily tried to put on graceful ways, radiant with internal joy directly a customer seemed to nibble, but clouding over and casting black glances at their companions when the latter seemed to have the better chance.  Out of the dozen the doctor began by setting three aside, and finally he detained but one, in order that he might study her more fully.

“One can see that Monsieur le Docteur knows his business,” Madame Broquette allowed herself to say, with a flattering smile.  “I don’t often have such pearls.  But she has only just arrived, otherwise she would probably have been engaged already.  I can answer for her as I could for myself, for I have put her out before.”

The nurse was a dark woman of about twenty-six, of average height, built strongly enough, but having a heavy, common face with a hard-looking jaw.  Having already been in service, however, she held herself fairly well.

“So that child is not your first one?” asked the doctor.

“No, monsieur, he’s my third.”

Then Boutan inquired into her circumstances, studied her papers, took her into Madame Broquette’s private room for examination, and on his return make a minute inspection of her child, a strong plump boy, some three months old, who in the interval had remained very quiet on an armchair.  The doctor seemed satisfied, but he suddenly raised his head to ask, “And that child is really your own?”

“Oh! monsieur, where could I have got him otherwise?”

“Oh! my girl, children are borrowed, you know.”

Then he paused for a moment, still hesitating and looking at the young woman, embarrassed by some feeling of doubt, although she seemed to embody all requirements.  “And are you all quite well in your family?” he asked; “have none of your relatives ever died of chest complaints?”

“Never, monsieur.”

“Well, of course you would not tell me if they had.  Your books ought to contain a page for information of that kind.  And you, are you of sober habits?  You don’t drink?”

“Oh! monsieur.”

This time the young woman bristled up, and Boutan had to calm her.  Then her face brightened with pleasure as soon as the doctor—­with the gesture of a man who is taking his chance, for however careful one may be there is always an element of chance in such matters—­said to her:  “Well, it is understood, I engage you.  If you can send your child away at once, you can go this evening to the address I will give you.  Let me see, what is your name?”