Josephine put a franc into the infant’s hand; the little fingers closed on it with that instinct of appropriation, which is our first and often our last sentiment.  Josephine smiled lovingly on the child, and the child seeing that gave a small crow.

“Bless it,” said Josephine, and thereupon her lovely head reared itself like a snake’s, and then darted down on the child; and the young noble kissed the beggar’s brat as if she would eat it.

This won the mother’s heart more than even the gifts.

“Blessings on you, my lady!” she cried.  “I pray the Lord not to forget this when a woman’s trouble comes on you in your turn!  It is a small child, mademoiselle, but it is not an unhealthy one.  See.”  Inspection was offered, and eagerly accepted.

Edouard stood looking on at some distance in amazement, mingled with disgust.

“Ugh!” said he, when she rejoined him, “how could you kiss that nasty little brat?”

“Dear Edouard, don’t speak so of a poor little innocent.  Who would pity them if we women did not?  It had lovely eyes.”

“Like saucers.”

“Yes.”

“It is no compliment when you are affectionate to anybody; you overflow with benevolence on all creation, like the rose which sheds its perfume on the first-comer.”

“If he is not going to be jealous of me next,” whined Josephine.

She took him to Rose, and she said, “There, whenever good friends quarrel, it is understood they were both in the wrong.  Bygones are to be bygones; and when your time comes round to quarrel again, please consult me first, since it is me you will afflict.”  She left them together, and went and tapped timidly at the doctor’s study.

Aubertin received her with none of that reserve she had seen in him.  He appeared both surprised and pleased at her visit to his little sanctum.  He even showed an emotion Josephine was at a loss to account for.  But that wore off during the conversation, and, indeed, gave place to a sort of coldness.

“Dear friend,” said she, “I come to consult you about Rose and Edouard.”  She then told him what had happened, and hinted at Edouard’s one fault.  The doctor smiled.  “It is curious.  You have come to draw my attention to a point on which it has been fixed for some days past.  I am preparing a cure for the two young fools; a severe remedy, but in their case a sure one.”

He then showed her a deed, wherein he had settled sixty thousand francs on Rose and her children.  “Edouard,” said he, “has a good place.  He is active and rising, and with my sixty thousand francs, and a little purse of ten thousand more for furniture and nonsense, they can marry next week, if they like.  Yes, marriage is a sovereign medicine for both of these patients.  She does not love him quite enough.  Cure:  marriage.  He loves her a little too much.  Cure:  marriage.”

“O doctor!”

“Can’t help it.  I did not make men and women.  We must take human nature as we find it, and thank God for it on the whole.  Have you nothing else to confide to me?”