Then the doctor broke off to inquire:  “And our friend Beauchene, have you warned him of your intention to leave the works?”

“Why, no, not yet,” said Mathieu; “and I would ask you to keep the matter private, for I wish to have everything settled before informing him.”

Lunching quickly, they had now got to their coffee, and the doctor offered to drive Mathieu back to the works, as he was going there himself, for Madame Beauchene had requested him to call once a week, in order that he might keep an eye on Maurice’s health.  Not only did the lad still suffer from his legs, but he had so weak and delicate a stomach that he had to be dieted severely.

“It’s the kind of stomach one finds among children who have not been brought up by their own mothers,” continued Boutan.  “Your plucky wife doesn’t know that trouble; she can let her children eat whatever they fancy.  But with that poor little Maurice, the merest trifle, such as four cherries instead of three, provokes indigestion.  Well, so it is settled, I will drive you back to the works.  Only I must first make a call in the Rue Roquepine to choose a nurse.  It won’t take me long, I hope.  Quick! let us be off.”

When they were together in the brougham, Boutan told Mathieu that it was precisely for the Seguins that he was going to the nurse-agency.  There was a terrible time at the house in the Avenue d’Antin.  A few months previously Valentine had given birth to a daughter, and her husband had obstinately resolved to select a fit nurse for the child himself, pretending that he knew all about such matters.  And he had chosen a big, sturdy young woman of monumental appearance.  Nevertheless, for two months past Andree, the baby, had been pining away, and the doctor had discovered, by analyzing the nurse’s milk, that it was deficient in nutriment.  Thus the child was simply perishing of starvation.  To change a nurse is a terrible thing, and the Seguins’ house was in a tempestuous state.  The husband rushed hither and thither, banging the doors and declaring that he would never more occupy himself about anything.

“And so,” added Boutan, “I have now been instructed to choose a fresh nurse.  And it is a pressing matter, for I am really feeling anxious about that poor little Andree.”

“But why did not the mother nurse her child?” asked Mathieu.

The doctor made a gesture of despair.  “Ah! my dear fellow, you ask me too much.  But how would you have a Parisienne of the wealthy bourgeoisie undertake the duty, the long brave task of nursing a child, when she leads the life she does, what with receptions and dinners and soirees, and absences and social obligations of all sorts?  That little Madame Seguin is simply trifling when she puts on an air of deep distress and says that she would so much have liked to nurse her infant, but that it was impossible since she had no milk.  She never even tried!  When her first child was born she could doubtless