VIII.
THE WORK OF BETHLEHEM.
Bethlehem! Why did that legendary name, sweet to the ear, warm as thestraw in the miraculous stable, give you such a cold shudder when yousaw it in gilt letters over that iron gateway? The feeling was dueperhaps to the melancholy landscape, the vast, desolate plain thatstretches from Nanterre to Saint-Cloud, broken only by an occasionalclump of trees or the smoke from some factory chimney. Perhaps, too, ina measure, to the disproportion between the humble hamlet of Judaea andthat grandiose structure, that villa in the style of Louis XIII., builtof small stones and mortar, and showing pink through the leaflessbranches of the park, where there were several large ponds with acoating of green slime. Certain it is that on passing the place one'sheart contracted. When one entered the grounds it was much worse. Anoppressive, inexplicable silence hovered about the house, where thefaces at the windows had a depressing aspect behind the smallold-fashioned, greenish panes. The she-goats, straying along the paths,languidly cropped the first shoots of grass, with occasional "baas" inthe direction of their keeper, who seemed as bored as they, andfollowed visitors with a listless eye. There was an air of mourning,the deserted, terrified aspect of a plague-stricken spot. Yet that hadonce been an attractive, cheerful property, and there had been muchfeasting and revelry there not long before. It had been laid out forthe famous singer who had sold it to Jenkins, and it exhibited tracesof the imaginative genius peculiar to the operatic stage, in the bridgeacross the pond, where there was a sunken wherry filled withwater-soaked leaves, and in its summer-house, all of rockwork, coveredwith climbing ivy. It had seen some droll sights, had thatsummer-house, in the singer's time, and now it saw some sad ones, forthe infirmary was located there.
To tell the truth, the whole establishment was simply one hugeinfirmary. The children fell sick as soon as they arrived, languishedand finally died unless their parents speedily removed them to the safeshelter of their homes. The cure of Nanterre went so often to Bethlehemwith his black vestments and his silver crucifix, the undertaker had somany orders for coffins for the house, that it was talked about in theneighborhood, and indignant mothers shook their fists at the modelnursery, but only at a safe distance if they happened to have in theirarms a little pink and white morsel of humanity to shelter from all thecontagions of that spot. That was what gave the miserable place such aheart-rending look. A house where children die cannot be cheerful; itis impossible for the trees to bloom there, or the birds to nest, orthe water to flow in laughing ripples of foam.
The institution seemed to be fairly inaugurated. Jenkins' idea,excellent in theory, was extremely difficult, almost impracticable, inpractice. And yet God knows that the affair had been carried throughwith an excess of zeal as to every detail, even the most trifling, andthat all the money and attendants necessary were forthcoming. At thehead of the establishment was one of the most skilful men in theprofession, M. Pondevez, a graduate of the Paris hospitals; andassociated with him, to take more direct charge of the children, atrustworthy woman, Madame Polge. Then there were maids and seamstressesand nurses. And how perfectly everything was arranged and systematized,from the distribution of the water through fifty faucets, to theomnibus with its driver in the Bethlehem livery, going to the stationat Rueil to meet every train, with a great jingling of bells. And themagnificent goats, goats from Thibet, with long silky coats andbursting udders. Everything was beyond praise in the organization ofthe establishment; but there was one point at which everything went topieces. This artificial nursing, so belauded in the prospectus, did notagree with the children. It was a strange obstinacy, as if theyconspired together with a glance, the poor little creatures, for theywere too young to speak--most of them were destined never to speak--"Ifyou say so, we won't suck the goats." And they did not, they preferredto die one after another rather than to suck them. Was Jesus ofBethlehem nursed by a goat in his stable? Did he not, on the contrary,nestle against a woman's breast, soft and full, on which he fell asleepwhen his thirst was satisfied? Who ever saw a goat among the legendaryoxen and asses on that night when the beasts spoke? In that case, whylie, why call it Bethlehem?
The manager was touched at first by so many deaths. This Pondevez, awaif and estray of the life of the Quarter, a twentieth year studentwell known in all the fruit-shops of Boulevard Saint-Michel under thename of Pompon, was not a bad man. When he realized the failure ofartificial nursing, he simply hired four or five buxom nurses in theneighborhood, and nothing more was needed to revive the children'sappetites. That humane impulse was near costing him his place.
"Nurses at Bethlehem," said Jenkins in a rage, when he came to pay hisweekly visit. "Are you mad? Upon my word! why the goats then, and thelawns to feed them, and my idea, and the pamphlets about my idea? Whatbecomes of all these? Why, you're going against my system, you'restealing the founder's money."
"But, my dear master," the student tried to reply, passing his handsthrough his long red beard, "but--as they don't like that food--"
"Very well! let them go hungry, but let the principle of artificialnursing be respected. Everything depends on that. I don't wish to haveto tell you so again. Send away those horrible nurses. For bringing upour children we have goat's milk and cow's milk in a great emergency;but I can't concede anything beyond that."
He added, with his apostolic air:
"We are here to demonstrate a grand philanthropic idea. It musttriumph, even at the cost of some sacrifices. Look to it."
Pondevez did not insist. After all, it was a good place, near enough toParis to permit descents upon Nanterre from the Quarter on Sunday, or avisit by the manager to his favorite breweries. Madame Polge--whomJenkins always called "our intelligent overseer," and whom he had infact placed there to oversee everything, the manager first of all--wasnot so austere as her duties would lead one to believe, and readilyyielded to the charm of a _petit verre_ or two of "right cognac," orto a game of bezique for fifteen hundred points. So he dismissed thenurses and tried to harden himself against whatever might happen. Whatdid happen? A genuine Massacre of the Innocents. So that the fewparents who were possessed of any means at all, mechanics or tradesmenof the faubourgs, who had been tempted by the advertisements to partwith their children, speedily took them away, and there remained in theestablishment only the wretched little creatures picked up underporches or in the fields, or sent by the hospitals, and doomed fromtheir birth to all manner of ills. As the mortality constantlyincreased, even that source of supply failed, and the omnibus that haddeparted at full speed for the railway station returned as light andspringy as an empty hearse. How could that state of affairs last? Howlong would it take to kill off the twenty-five or thirty little oneswho were left? That is what the manager, or, as he had christenedhimself, the register of deaths, Pondevez, was wondering one morningafter breakfast, as he sat opposite Madame Polge's venerable curls,taking a hand at that lady's favorite game.
"Yes, my dear Madame Polge, what is to become of us? Things cannot goon long like this. Jenkins won't give in, the children are as obstinateas mules. There's no gainsaying it, they'll all pass out of our hands.There's that little Wallachian--I mark the king, Madame Polge--who maydie any minute. Poor little brat, just think, it's three days sinceanything went into his stomach. I don't care what Jenkins says; youcan't improve children, like snails, by starving them. It's adistressing thing not to be able to save a single one. The infirmaryhasn't unlimited capacity. In all earnestness this is a pitifulbusiness. Bezique, forty."
Two strokes of the bell at the main entrance interrupted his monologue.The omnibus was returning from the station and its wheels ground intothe gravel in unaccustomed fashion.
"What an astonishing thing!" said Pondevez, "the carriage isn't empty."
In truth the vehicle drew up at the steps with a certain pride, and theman who alighted crossed the threshold at a bound. It was an expressfrom Jenkins with important news; the doctor would be there in twohours to inspect the asylum, with the Nabob and a gentleman from theTuiler
ies. He gave strict injunctions that everything should be readyfor their reception. The plan was formed so suddenly that he had nothad time to write; but he relied on M. Pondevez to make the necessaryarrangements.
"Deuce take him and his necessary arrangements! muttered Pondevez indismay. It was a critical situation. That momentous visit came at theworst possible moment, when the system was rapidly going to pieces.Poor Pompon, in dire perplexity, tugged at his beard and gnawed theends of it.
"Come, come," he said abruptly to Madame Polge, whose long face hadgrown still longer between her false curls. "There is only one thingfor us to do. We must clear out the infirmary, carry all the sick onesinto the dormitory. They'll be no better nor worse for spending half aday there. As for the scrofulous ones, we'll just put them out ofsight. They're too ugly, we won't show them. Come, off we go! all handson deck!"
The dinner-bell rang the alarm and everybody hurried to the spot.Seamstresses, nurses, maid-servants, came running from every side,jostling one another in the corridors, hurrying across the yards.Orders flew hither and thither, and there was a great calling andshouting; but above all the other noises soared the noise of a grandscrubbing, of rushing water, as if Bethlehem had been surprised by aconflagration. And the wailing of sick children torn from their warmbeds, all the whimpering little bundles carried through the damp park,with a fluttering of bedclothes among the branches, strengthened theimpression of a fire. In two hours, thanks to the prodigious activitydisplayed, the whole house from top to bottom was ready for theimpending visit, all the members of the staff at their posts, the firelighted in the stove, the goats scattered picturesquely through thepark. Madame Polge had put on her green dress, the manager's attire wasa little less slovenly than usual, but so simple as to exclude any ideaof premeditation. Let the Empress's secretary come!
And here he is.
He alights with Jenkins and Jansoulet from a magnificent carriage withthe Nabob's red and gold livery. Feigning the utmost astonishment,Pondevez rushes forward to meet his visitors.
"Ah! Monsieur Jenkins, what an honor! What a surprise!"
Salutations are exchanged on the stoop, reverences, handshakings,introductions. Jenkins, his coat thrown back from his loyal breast,indulges in his heartiest, most engaging smile; but a meaning furrowlies across his brow. He is anxious concerning the surprises that theestablishment may have in store, for he knows its demoralizedcondition. If only Pondevez has taken proper precautions! It beginswell, however. The somewhat theatrical aspect of the approach to thehouse, the white fleeces gambolling among the shrubbery, have enchantedM. de La Perriere, who, with his innocent eyes, his straggling whitebeard and the constant nodding of his head, is not himself unlike agoat escaped from its tether.
"First of all, messieurs, the most important room in the house, theNursery," says the manager, opening a massive door at the end of thereception-room. The gentlemen follow him, descend a few steps and findthemselves in an enormous basement room, with tiled floor, formerly thekitchen of the chateau. The thing that impresses one on entering is ahuge, high fireplace of the old pattern, in red brick, with two stonebenches facing each other under the mantel, and the singer's crest--animmense lyre with a roll of music--carved on the monumental pediment.The effect was striking; but there came from it a terrible blast ofair, which, added to the cold of the floor, to the pale light fallingthrough the windows on a level with the ground, made one shudder forthe well-being of the children. What would you have? They were obligedto use that unhealthy apartment for the Nursery because of thecapricious, country-bred nurses who were accustomed to theunconstrained manners of the stable; one had only to see the pools ofmilk, the great reddish spots drying on the floor, to inhale the acridodor that assailed your nostrils as you entered, mingled with whey andmoist hair and many other things, to be convinced of that absolutenecessity.
The dark walls of the room were so high that at first the visitorsthought that the Nursery was deserted. They distinguished, however, atthe farther end, a bleating, whining, restless group. Two countrywomen,with surly, brutish, dirty faces, two "dry-nurses," who well deservedtheir name, were sitting on mats with their nurslings in their arms,each having a large goat before her, with legs apart and distendedudders. The manager seemed to be agreeably surprised:
"On my word, messieurs, this is a lucky chance. Two of our children arehaving a little lunch. We will see how nurses and nurslings agree."
"What's the matter with the man? He is mad," said Jenkins to himself,in dire dismay.
But the manager was very clear-headed, on the contrary, and had himselfshrewdly arranged the scene, selecting two patient, good-naturedbeasts, and two exceptional subjects, two little idiots who weredetermined to live at any price, and opened their mouths to nourishmentof any sort, like little birds still in the nest.
"Come, messieurs, and see for yourselves."
The cherubs were really nursing. One of them, cuddled under the goat'sbelly, went at it so heartily that you could hear the _glou-glou_ ofthe warm milk as it went down, down into his little legs, whichquivered with satisfaction. The other, more calm, lay indolently in hisAuvergnat nurse's lap, and required some little encouragement from her.
"Come, suck, I tell you, suck, _bougri_!"
At last, as if he had formed a sudden resolution, he began to drink sogreedily that the woman, surprised by his abnormal appetite, leanedover him and exclaimed, with a laugh;
"Ah! the scamp, what a mischievous trick! it's his thumb he's suckinginstead of the goat."
He had thought of that expedient, the angel, to induce them to leavehim in peace. The incident produced no ill effect; on the contrary, M.de La Perriere was much amused at the nurse's idea that the child hadtried to play a trick on them. He left the Nursery highly delighted."Positively de-de-delighted," he repeated as they ascended the grandechoing staircase, decorated with stags' antlers, which led to thedormitory.
Very light and airy was that great room, occupying the whole of oneside of the house, with numerous windows, cradles at equal intervals,with curtains as white and fleecy as clouds. Women were passing to andfro in the broad passage-way in the centre, with piles of linen intheir arms, keys in their hands, overseers or "movers." Here they hadtried to do too much, and the first impression of the visitors wasunfavorable. All that white muslin, that waxed floor, in which thelight shone without blending, the clean window-panes reflecting thesky, which wore a gloomy look at sight of such things, brought out moredistinctly the thinness, the sickly pallor of those littleshroud-colored, moribund creatures. Alas! the oldest were but sixmonths, the youngest barely a fortnight, and already, upon all thosefaces, those embryotic faces, there was an expression of disgust, anoldish, dogged look, a precocity born of suffering, visible in thenumberless wrinkles on those little bald heads, confined in linen capsedged with tawdry hospital lace. From what did they suffer? Whatdisease had they? They had everything, everything that one can have;diseases of children and diseases of adults. Offspring of poverty andvice, they brought into the world when they were born ghastly phenomenaof heredity. One had a cleft palate, another great copper-coloredblotches on his forehead, and all were covered with humor. And thenthey were starving to death. Notwithstanding the spoonfuls of milk andsugared water that were forced into their mouths, and thesucking-bottle that was used more or less in spite of the prohibition,they were dying of inanition. Those poor creatures, exhausted beforethey were born, needed the freshest, the most strengthening food; thegoats might perhaps have supplied it, but they had sworn not to suckthe goats. And that was what made the dormitory lugubrious and silent,without any of the little outbursts of anger emphasized by clenchedfists, without any of the shrieks that show the even red gums, wherebythe child makes trial of his strength and of his lungs; only anoccasional plaintive groan, as if the soul were tossing and turningrestlessly in a little diseased body, unable to find a place to rest.
Jenkins and the manager, noticing the unfavorable impression producedupon their guests by the visit to the
dormitory, tried to enliven thesituation by talking very loud, with a good-humored, frank,well-satisfied manner. Jenkins shook hands warmly with the overseer.
"Well, Madame Polge, are our little pupils getting on?"
"As you see, Monsieur le Docteur," she replied, pointing to the beds.
Very funereal in her green dress was tall Madame Polge, the ideal ofdry nurses; she completed the picture.
But where had the Empress's secretary gone? He was standing by acradle, which he was scrutinizing sadly, shaking his head.
"_Bigre de Bigre!_" whispered Pompon to Madame Polge. "It's theWallachian."
The little blue card, hanging above the cradle as in hospitals, setforth the nationality of the child within: "Moldo-Wallachian." Whatcursed luck that Monsieur le Secretaire's eye should happen to lightupon him! Oh! the poor little head lying on the pillow, with cap allawry, nostrils contracted, lips parted by a short, panting breath, thebreath of those who are just born and of those who are about to die.
"Is he ill?" the secretary softly asked the manager, who had drawnnear.
"Not in the least," replied the audacious Pompon, and he walked to thecradle, poked the little one playfully with his finger, rearranged thepillow, and said in a hearty, affectionate voice, albeit a littleroughly: "Well, old fellow?" Roused from his stupor, emerging from thetorpor which already enveloped him, the little fellow opened his eyesand looked at the faces bending over him, with sullen indifference,then, returning to his dream which he deemed more attractive, clenchedhis little wrinkled hands and heaved an inaudible sigh. Oh! mystery!Who can say for what purpose that child was born? To suffer two monthsand to go away without seeing or understanding anything, before anyonehad heard the sound of his voice!
"How pale he is!" muttered M. de La Perriere, himself as pale as death.The Nabob, too, was as white as a sheet. A cold breath had passed overthem. The manager assumed an indifferent air.
"It's the reflection. We all look green."
"To be sure--to be sure," said Jenkins, "it's the reflection of thepond. Just come and look, Monsieur le Secretaire." And he led him tothe window to point out the great sheet of water in which the willowsdipped their branches, while Madame Polge hastily closed the curtainsof his cradle upon the little Wallachian's never-ending dream.
They must proceed quickly to inspect other portions of theestablishment in order to do away with that unfortunate impression.
First they show M. de La Perriere the magnificent laundry, withpresses, drying machines, thermometers, huge closets of polished walnutfull of caps and nightgowns, tied together and labelled by dozens. Whenthe linen was well warmed the laundress passed it out through a littlewicket in exchange for the number passed in by the nurse. As you see,the system was perfect, and everything, even to the strong smell oflye, combined to give the room a healthy, country-like aspect. Therewere garments enough there to clothe five hundred children. That wasthe capacity of Bethlehem, and everything was provided on that basis:the vast dispensary, gleaming with glass jars and Latin inscriptions,with marble pestles in every corner; the hydropathic arrangements withthe great stone tanks, the shining tubs, the immense apparatustraversed by pipes of all lengths for the ascending and descending_douches_, in showers, in jets, and in whip-like streams; and thekitchens fitted out with superb graduated copper kettles, witheconomical coal and gas ovens. Jenkins had determined to make it amodel establishment; and it was an easy matter for him, for he hadworked on a grand scale, as one works when funds are abundant. Onecould feel everywhere, too, the experience and the iron hand of "ourintelligent overseer," to whom the manager could not forbear to dopublic homage. That was the signal for general congratulations. M. deLa Perriere, delighted with the equipment of the establishment,congratulated Dr. Jenkins upon his noble creation, Jenkinscongratulated his friend Pondevez, who in his turn thanked thesecretary for having condescended to honor Bethlehem with a visit. Thegood Nabob chimed in with that concert of laudation and had a pleasantword for every one, but was somewhat astonished all the same that noone congratulated him too, while they were about it. To be sure, thebest of all congratulations awaited him on the 16th of March at thehead of the _Journal Officiel_, in a decree which gleamed before hiseyes in anticipation and made him squint in the direction of hisbuttonhole.
These pleasant words were exchanged as they walked through a longcorridor where their sententious phrases were repeated by the echoes;but suddenly a horrible uproar arrested their conversation and theirfootsteps. It was like the miaouwing of frantic cats, the bellowing ofwild bulls, the howling of savages dancing the war-dance--a frightfultempest of human yells, repeated and increased in volume and prolongedby the high, resonant arches. It rose and fell, stopped suddenly, thenbegan again with extraordinary intensity. The manager was disturbed,and started to make inquiries. Jenkins' eyes were inflamed with rage.
"Let us go on," said the manager, really alarmed this time; "I knowwhat it is."
He did know what it was; but M. de La Perriere proposed to know, too,and before Pondevez could raise his hand, he pushed open the heavy doorof the room whence that fearful concert proceeded.
In a vile kennel which the grand scouring had passed by, for they hadno idea of exhibiting it, some half score little monstrosities laystretched on mattresses laid side by side on the floor, under theguardianship of a chair unoccupied save by an unfinished piece ofknitting, and a little cracked kettle, full of hot wine, boiling over asmoking wood fire. They were the leprous, the scrofulous, the outcastsof Bethlehem, who had been hidden away in that retired corner--withinjunctions to their dry nurse to amuse them, to pacify them, to sit onthem if necessary, so that they should not cry--but whom that stupid,inquisitive countrywoman had left to themselves while she went to lookat the fine carriage standing in the courtyard. When her back wasturned the urchins soon wearied of their horizontal position; and allthe little, red-faced, blotched _croute-leves_ lifted up their robustvoices in concert, for they, by some miracle, were in good health,their very disease saved and nourished them. As wild and squirming ascockchafers thrown on their backs, struggling to rise with the aid ofknees and elbows,--some unable to recover their equilibrium afterfalling on their sides, others sitting erect, bewildered, their littlelegs wrapped in swaddling-clothes, they spontaneously ceased theirwrithings and their cries when they saw the door open; but M. de LaPerriere's shaking beard reassured them, encouraged them to freshefforts, and in the renewed uproar the manager's explanation was almostinaudible: "Children that are kept secluded--contagion--skin diseases."Monsieur le Secretaire inquired no farther; less heroic than Bonapartewhen he visited the plague-stricken wretches at Jaffa, he rushed to thedoor, and in his confusion and alarm, anxious to say something andunable to think of anything appropriate, he murmured, with an ineffablesmile: "They are cha-arming."
The inspection concluded, they all assembled in the salon on the groundfloor, where Madame Polge had prepared a little collation. The cellarsof Bethlehem were well stocked. The sharp air of the high land, thegoing upstairs and downstairs had given the old gentleman from theTuileries such an appetite as he had not had for many a day, so that hetalked and laughed with true rustic good-fellowship, and when they wereall standing, the visitors being about to depart, he raised his glass,shaking his head the while, to drink this toast: "To Be-Be-Bethlehem!"
The others were much affected, there was a clinking of glasses, andthen the carriage bore the party swiftly along the avenue of lindens,where a cold, red, rayless sun was setting. Behind them the parkrelapsed into its gloomy silence. Great dark shadows gathered at thefoot of the hedges, invaded the house, crept stealthily along the pathsand across their intersections. Soon everything was in darkness savethe ironical letters over the entrance gate, and, at a window on theground-floor, a flickering red glimmer, the flame of a taper burning bythe pillow of the dead child.
"_By decree of March 12, 1865, promulgated at the recommendation of the Minister of the Interior, Monsieur le Docteur Jenkins, founder and preside
nt of the Work of Bethlehem, is appointed chevalier of the Imperial Order of the Legion of Honor. Exemplary devotion to the cause of humanity._"
When he read these lines on the first page of the _Journal Officiel_,on the morning of the 16th, the poor Nabob had an attack of vertigo.
Was it possible?
Jenkins decorated and not he!
He read the announcement twice, thinking that his eyes must havedeceived him. There was a buzzing in his ears. The letters, two ofeach, danced before his eyes with the red circles caused by looking atthe sun. He had been so certain of seeing his name in that place; andJenkins--only the day before--had said to him so confidently: "It isall settled!" that it still seemed to him that he must be mistaken. Butno, it was really Jenkins. It was a deep, heart-sickening, propheticblow, like a first warning from destiny, and was the more keenly feltbecause, for years past, the man had been unaccustomed todisappointments, had lived above humanity. All the good that there wasin him learned at that moment to be distrustful.
"Well," he said to de Gery, entering his room, as he did every morning,and surprising him with the paper in his hand and evidently deeplymoved, "I suppose you have seen,--my name is not in the _Officiel_?"
He tried to smile, his features distorted like those of a childstruggling to restrain his tears. Then, suddenly, with the franknessthat was so attractive in him, he added: "This makes me feel verybadly,--I expected too much."
As he spoke, the door opened and Jenkins rushed into the room,breathless, panting, intensely agitated.
"It's an outrage--a horrible outrage. It cannot, shall not be."
The words rushed tumultuously to his lips, all trying to come out atonce; then he seemed to abandon the attempt to express his thoughts andthrew upon the table a little shagreen box and a large envelope, bothbearing the stamp of the chancellor's office.
"There are my cross and my letters patent," he said. "They are yours,my friend, I cannot keep them."
In reality that did not mean much. Jansoulet arraying himself inJenkins' ribbon would speedily be punished for unlawfully wearing adecoration. But a _coup de theatre_ is not necessarily logical; thisparticular one led to an effusion of sentiment, embraces, a generouscombat between the two men, the result being that Jenkins restored theobjects to his pocket, talking about protests, letters to thenewspapers. The Nabob was obliged to stop him again.
"Do nothing of the kind, you rascal. In the first place, it wouldstand in my way another time. Who knows? perhaps on the 15th of nextAugust--"
"Oh! I never thought of that," cried Jenkins, jumping at the idea. Heput forth his arm, as in David's _Serment_: "I swear it by my sacredhonor!"
The subject dropped there. At breakfast the Nabob did not refer to itand was as cheerful as usual. His good humor lasted through the day;and de Gery, to whom that scene had been a revelation of the realJenkins, an explanation of the satirical remarks and restrained wrathof Felicia Ruys when she spoke of the doctor, asked himself to nopurpose how he could open his dear master's eyes concerning thatscheming hypocrite. He should have known, however, that the men of theSouth, all effusiveness on the surface, are never so utterly blind, sodeluded as to resist the wise results of reflection. That evening theNabob opened a shabby little portfolio, badly worn at the corners, inwhich for ten years past he had manoeuvred his millions, minuting hisprofits and his expenses in hieroglyphics comprehensible to himselfalone. He calculated for a moment, then turned to de Gery.
"Do you know what I am doing, my dear Paul?" he asked.
"No, monsieur."
"I have just been reckoning"--and his mocking glance, eloquent of hisSouthern origin, belied his good-humored smile--"I have just beenreckoning that I have spent four hundred and thirty thousand francs toobtain that decoration for Jenkins."
Four hundred and thirty thousand francs! And the end was not yet.