“That, Chérubin’s father? Nonsense! Impossible! It’s his grandfather, his great grandfather at least! As if a shrivelled and shrunken old fellow like that could have such young children!” Monsieur de Grandvilain turned purple with rage; for a moment he was tempted to take his son away and never again set foot inside the house of that vulgar peasant who had said such unpleasant things to him; but Nicole had already succeeded in pushing her husband out of the room, and Jasmin, who was engaged in refreshing himself at a little distance, went to his master and said: “Don’t pay any attention to him, my dear master, the foster-father has been drinking; he’s drunk, he can’t see straight; but for that, he would never have said such things to you; he might have thought them, perhaps, but he wouldn’t have said them.” “My husband is a drunken sot and nothing else,” said Nicole. “I ask your pardon for him, monsieur le marquis; the idea of thinking that you ain’t your son’s father! Mon Dieu! it’s plain enough that his eyes are blinded by drink. Why, the dear child is the very image of you! He has your nose and your mouth and your eyes and everything!” This language was absurdly exaggerated, and far from flattering to little Chérubin; but the Marquis de Grandvilain, who did not choose to grow old, took it all for gospel truth; he looked at his son again and murmured: “Yes, he looks like me, he will be a very handsome boy.” He rose and put a purse in the nurse’s hand, saying to her: “I am well pleased; my son is well; continue to take good care of him, for since the air of this neighborhood agrees with him, I think that I shall do well to leave him with you a long while, a very long while, in fact. Children always have time enough to study; health before everything! eh, Jasmin?” “Oh yes! health indeed, monsieur! You are quite right; for what good does it do to know a lot when one is dead?” Monsieur de Grandvilain smiled at his valet’s reflection; then, after embracing Chérubin, he returned to his carriage. Jacquinot was cowering in a corner of the yard, and did not dare to stir; he contented himself with bowing to the marquis, who, as he passed the peasant, drew himself up and did his utmost to impart to his gait the ease and firmness of youth. Several months passed. Monsieur de Grandvilain often said: “I am going to Gagny.” But he did not go; the dread of meeting the foster-father again, and of being greeted with fresh compliments after the style of the former ones, restrained the marquis, and he contented himself with sending for his son, who had become large enough to take such a short journey without danger. At such times Nicole passed several hours at the mansion; but Chérubin did not enjoy himself there; he always wept and asked to be taken back to the village. Whereupon the marquis would embrace his son and say to his nurse: “Go at once, we must not thwart him; perhaps it would make him ill.”