Precisely at that moment in walked Dr. Boutan, a short, stout man of forty, with very keen eyes set in a clean-shaven, heavy, but extremely good-natured face.  He at once examined the child, felt and sounded him; then with his kindly yet serious air he said:  “No, no, there’s nothing.  It is the mere effect of growth.  The lad has become rather pale through spending the winter in Paris, but a few months in the open air, in the country, will set him right again.”

“I told you so!” cried Beauchene.

Constance had kept her son’s little hand in her own.  He had again stretched himself out and closed his eyes in a weary way, whilst she, in her happiness, continued smiling.  Whenever she chose she could appear quite pleasant-looking, however unprepossessing might be her features.  The doctor had seated himself, for he was fond of lingering and chatting in the houses of friends.  A general practitioner, and one who more particularly tended the ailments of women and children, he was naturally a confessor, knew all sorts of secrets, and was quite at home in family circles.  It was he who had attended Constance at the birth of that much-spoiled only son, and Marianne at the advent of the four children she already had.

Mathieu had remained standing, awaiting an opportunity to deliver his invitation.  “Well,” said he, “if you are soon leaving for the country, you must come one Sunday to Janville.  My wife would be so delighted to see you there, to show you our encampment.”

Then he jested respecting the bareness of the lonely pavilion which they occupied, recounting that as yet they possessed only a dozen plates and five egg-cups.  But Beauchene knew the pavilion, for he went shooting in the neighborhood every winter, having a share in the tenancy of some extensive woods, the shooting-rights over which had been parcelled out by the owner.

“Seguin,” said he, “is a friend of mine.  I have lunched at your pavilion.  It’s a perfect hovel!”

Then Constance, contemptuous at the idea of such poverty, recalled what Madame Seguin—­to whom she referred as Valentine—­had told her of the dilapidated condition of the old shooting-box.  But the doctor, after listening with a smile, broke in: 

“Mme. Seguin is a patient of mine.  At the time when her last child was born I advised her to stay at that pavilion.  The atmosphere is wholesome, and children ought to spring up there like couch-grass.”

Thereupon, with a sonorous laugh, Beauchene began to jest in his habitual way, remarking that if the doctor were correct there would probably be no end to Mathieu’s progeny, numerous as it already was.  But this elicited an angry protest from Constance, who on the subject of children held the same views as her husband himself professed in his more serious moments.

Mathieu thoroughly understood what they both meant.  They regarded him and his wife with derisive pity, tinged with anger.