“What a lovely child!” he cried; “and to think that I begot him!” “Yes, we begot him!” muttered Jasmin, who stood behind his master’s chair, with the bottle of madeira in his hand, in case of an emergency. “How plump and pink he is; what pretty little calves!” “Faith, I haven’t as much calf as that now!” said Jasmin, glancing at his own legs. “What a pretty little round head!” “One would swear that it was a Dutch cheese,” muttered Jasmin; but luckily for him, his master did not hear his reflection that time, or it would have caused the suppression of his present for good and all. “He is built like an Apollo!--and he has--why, it is herculean! Look, Jasmin,--see how--how he has developed already!” “It is marvelous,” said Jasmin, who, after examining the proportions of the child, made mentally the same reflection that he had made on the subject of his legs. After Monsieur de Grandvilain had thoroughly scrutinized his son _per fas et nefas_, he handed him to his spouse, saying: “By the way, my dear love, what shall we call him?” “That is what I have been thinking of, my dear husband, ever since he was born.” “My son must have a noble name. My own name is Sigismond; that is a good name, but I don’t like the idea of sons having their fathers’ names; that leads to mistakes, until you don’t know where you are.” “Listen, monsieur le marquis, the most appropriate name for the dear love would be Chérubin. What do you say to that? Isn’t it a very pretty name?” “Chérubin!” said the marquis, shaking his head; “that is very girlish; there is nothing warlike about it.” “Why, monsieur, what’s the necessity of giving a warrior’s name to our son? That would have been very well in Napoléon’s time, but now it is no longer the fashion; let us call our son Chérubin, I beg you!” “Marchioness,” replied the marquis, kissing his wife’s hand, “you have given me a son and I can refuse you nothing. His name shall be Chérubin; that rather reminds one of the _Mariage de Figaro_; but after all, Beaumarchais’s Chérubin is an attractive little rascal; all the women dote on him, and it would not be a bad thing if our son should resemble the little page.” “Yes, yes,” murmured Jasmin, who stood behind his master’s chair, swaying from side to side, for the visits behind the curtain had begun to make his legs unsteady. “Yes, Chérubin is very nice; it rhymes with Jasmin.” The marquis turned, and was tempted to strike his servant; but he, finding that he had made another foolish speech, assumed such a piteous expression that his master simply said to him: “You are impertinent beyond all bounds to-day, Jasmin!” “I beg pardon, monsieur le marquis, it is my delight, my enthusiasm. I am so happy, that it seems to me that everything in the room is dancing.” At that moment Turlurette appeared and said that all the servants in the house had assembled and requested permission to offer their mistress a bouquet, and their master their congratulations.