But there are people who take for very noble thoughts everything which comes from the pen of a man who has written great things. Such people are very generous. We rarely find gold without alloy; and can man produce what Nature cannot produce? There are people also, who, when they walk through a cemetery, believe in the truth of all the inscriptions carved upon the tombs, according to which the people there interred were models of virtue, goodness, uprightness, etc., etc. I have infinite respect for the dead, but I do not see the necessity of trying to deceive the living. Those who are no more were no better than we, and we are no better than those who will come after us. We were saying then that little Chérubin was no longer as beautiful as an angel, although he bore the name of one; but that did not prevent all those who went to pay their respects to the mother from complimenting her upon her child. Honest Aménaïde listened with a sweet smile to all the flattering words which were addressed to her son. Meanwhile, Monsieur de Grandvilain lay back in an easy-chair, patted his legs, and shook his head, and looked at the ladies with an air which seemed almost to say: “When you want one like him, apply to me.” Luckily for him, none of the ladies was tempted to put him to the proof. About ten o’clock in the evening, just as the doctor was urging Madame de Grandvilain not to admit any more people to her room, and to try to sleep, there was a sudden uproar in the courtyard, and a bright light shone in the windows; then, something as brilliant as lightning shot through the air. It was the work of Jasmin, who, to celebrate the baptism of his master’s son, had conceived the idea of a display of fireworks in the courtyard, in order to afford the marquis and all his guests a pleasant surprise; and who had just discharged a mortar and then a rocket, to attract everybody to the windows. In fact, the explosion of the mortar had caused a profound sensation in the house; everyone thought it was the roar of cannon; the mother leaped up in her bed, the child in its cradle, monsieur le marquis in his chair, and all the guests, wherever they were. They gazed at each other with a terrified expression, saying: “What is it? What a noise! It is cannon! There must be fighting in Paris!” “Fighting?” “Great heaven! can it be that the usurper has come back again?” Remember that this happened in the year 1819, and that in the mansions of Faubourg Saint-Germain, Napoléon was ordinarily referred to as the usurper. There was a moment of confusion in the salon; some of the men talked of running to arms, others looked about for their hats, the women ran after the men, or prepared to faint, and some talked in undertones, in corners, with young men, whom, up to that time, they had pretended barely to look at.