“At Rougemont, you know, madame, your little one would be just the same as at home.  There’s no better air in the Department; people come there from Bayeux to recruit their health.  And if you only knew how well the little ones are cared for!  It’s the only occupation of the district, to have little Parisians to coddle and love!  And, besides, I wouldn’t charge you dear.  I’ve a friend of mine who already has three nurslings, and, as she naturally brings them up with the bottle, it wouldn’t put her out to take a fourth for almost next to nothing.  Come, doesn’t that suit you—­doesn’t that tempt you?”

When, however, she saw that tears were Norine’s only answer, she made an impatient gesture like an active woman who cannot afford to lose her time.  At each of her fortnightly journeys, as soon as she had rid herself of her batch of nurses at the different offices, she hastened round the nurses’ establishments to pick up infants, so as to take the train homewards the same evening together with two or three women who, as she put it, helped her “to cart the little ones about.”  On this occasion she was in a greater hurry, as Madame Bourdieu, who employed her in a variety of ways, had asked her to take Norine’s child to the Foundling Hospital if she did not take it to Rougemont.

“And so,” said La Couteau, turning to Madame Bourdieu, “I shall have only the other lady’s child to take back with me.  Well, I had better see her at once to make final arrangements.  Then I’ll take this one and carry it yonder as fast as possible, for my train starts at six o’clock.”

When La Couteau and Madame Bourdieu had gone off to speak to Rosine, who was the “other lady” referred to, the room sank into silence save for the wailing and sobbing of Norine.  Mathieu had seated himself near the cradle, gazing compassionately at the poor little babe, who was still peacefully sleeping.  Soon, however, Victoire, the little servant girl, who had hitherto remained silent, as if absorbed in her sewing, broke the heavy silence and talked on slowly and interminably without raising her eyes from her needle.

“You were quite right in not trusting your child to that horrid woman!” she began.  “Whatever may be done with him at the hospital, he will be better off there than in her hands.  At least he will have a chance to live.  And that’s why I insisted, like you, on having mine taken there at once.  You know I belong in that woman’s region—­yes, I come from Berville, which is barely four miles from Rougemont, and I can’t help knowing La Couteau, for folks talk enough about her in our village.  She’s a nice creature and no mistake!  And it’s a fine trade that she plies, selling other people’s milk.  She was no better than she should be at one time, but at last she was lucky enough to marry a big, coarse, brutal fellow, whom at this time of day she leads by the nose.  And he helps her.  Yes, he also brings nurses to Paris and takes babies back with him,