Meanwhile my wife was coming to herself; she half opened her eyes and seemed to be looking for something.

“Where is he?” she murmured in a faint voice.

They showed her her mother’s apron.

“A boy, is it not?”

Taking my hand, she drew me down toward her and said in a whisper, “Are you satisfied with me?  I did my best, dear.”

“Come, no emotion,” exclaimed the doctor, “you shall kiss each other tomorrow.  Colonel,” he said to my father, who still retained his hat and stick, “keep them from kissing.  No emotion, and every one outside.  I am going to dress the little lancer.  Give me the little man, grandmamma.  Come here, little savage.  You shall see whether I don’t know how to fasten pins in.”

He took the baby in his two large hands and sat down on a stool before the fire.

I watched my boy whom Jacques was turning about like a doll, but with great skill.  He examined him all over, touching and feeling him, and at each test said with a smile: 

“He is a fine one, he is a fine one.”

Then he rolled him up in his clothes, put a triple cap on his little bald head, tied a folded ribbon under his chin to prevent his head falling backward, and then, satisfied with his work, said: 

“You saw how I did it, nurse?  Well, you must dress this lancer every morning in the same way.  Nothing but a little sugar and water till to-morrow.  The mother has no fever.  Come, all is going on well.

“Lucky Captain!  I am so hungry.  Do you know that it is one in the morning?  You haven’t got cold partridge or a bit of pie that you don’t know what to do with, have you?  It would suit me down to the ground, with a bottle of something.”

We went both into the dining-room and laid the cloth without any more ceremony.

I never in my life ate and drank so much as on that occasion.

“Come, get off to bed,” said the doctor, putting on his coat.  “To-morrow morning you shall have the wet-nurse.  No, by the way, I’ll call for you, and we will go and choose her together; it is curious.  Be under arms at half-past eight.”

CHAPTER XXIII

NEW YEAR’S DAY

It is barely seven o’clock.  A pale ray of daylight is stealing through the double curtains, and already some one is tapping at the door.  I can hear in the next room from the stifled laughter and the silvery tones of Baby, who is quivering with impatience, and asking leave to come in.

“Papa,” he cries, “it is Baby, it is Baby come for the New Year.”

“Come in, my darling; come quick, and kiss us.”

The door opens and my boy, his eyes aglow, and his arms raised, rushes toward the bed.  His curls, escaping from the nightcap covering his head, float on his forehead.  His long, loose night-shirt, catching his little feet, increases his impatience, and causes him to stumble at every step.