good-natured face. He at once examined the child, felt and sounded him;
then with his kindly yet serious air he said: "No, no, there's nothing.
It is the mere effect of growth. The lad has become rather pale through
spending the winter in Paris, but a few months in the open air, in the
country, will set him right again."

"I told you so!" cried Beauchene.

Constance had kept her son's little hand in her own. He had again
stretched himself out and closed his eyes in a weary way, whilst she, in
her happiness, continued smiling. Whenever she chose she could appear
quite pleasant-looking, however unprepossessing might be her features.
The doctor had seated himself, for he was fond of lingering and chatting
in the houses of friends. A general practitioner, and one who more
particularly tended the ailments of women and children, he was naturally
a confessor, knew all sorts of secrets, and was quite at home in family
circles. It was he who had attended Constance at the birth of that
much-spoiled only son, and Marianne at the advent of the four children
she already had.

Mathieu had remained standing, awaiting an opportunity to deliver his
invitation. "Well," said he, "if you are soon leaving for the country,
you must come one Sunday to Janville. My wife would be so delighted to
see you there, to show you our encampment."

Then he jested respecting the bareness of the lonely pavilion which they
occupied, recounting that as yet they possessed only a dozen plates and
five egg-cups. But Beauchene knew the pavilion, for he went shooting in
the neighborhood every winter, having a share in the tenancy of some
extensive woods, the shooting-rights over which had been parcelled out by