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"Yes, yes, that is so," remarks Jenkins, "it is the reflection of the lake. Come and look, Monsieur the Secretary." And he draws him to the window to point out to him the large sheet of water with its dipping willows, while Mme. Polge makes haste to draw over the eternal dream of the little Wallachian the parted curtains of his cradle.
The inspection concluded, they all assembled in the salon on the ground floor, where Madame Polge had prepared a little collation. The cellars of Bethlehem were well stocked.
Madame Polge had put on her green dress, the manager's attire was a little less slovenly than usual, but so simple as to exclude any idea of premeditation. Let the Empress's secretary come! And here he is. He alights with Jenkins and Jansoulet from a magnificent carriage with the Nabob's red and gold livery. Feigning the utmost astonishment, Pondevèz rushes forward to meet his visitors. "Ah!
This important visit was occurring at the worst possible moment, just as the system had utterly broken down. The poor Pompon, exceedingly perplexed, tugged at his beard, thoughtfully gnawing wisps of it. "Come," said he suddenly to Mme. Polge, whose long face had grown still longer between her ringlets, "we have only one course to take.
Polge, to whom Jenkins always referred as "our intelligent superintendent," and whom he had placed there to superintend everything, and chiefly the director himself, was not so austere, as her prerogatives might have led one to suppose, and submitted willingly to a few liqueur-glasses of cognac or to a game of bezique.
Jenkins and the director, who have seen the bad impression produced on their guests by this inspection of the dormitory, try to put a little life into the situation, talk very loudly in a good-natured, complacent, satisfied way. Jenkins shakes hands warmly with the superintendent. "Well, Mme. Polge, and how are our little nurslings getting on?"
This was what Monsieur the Director, or rather, to give him the nickname which he had himself invented, Monsieur the Grantor-of-Certificates-of-death Pondevez, was asking himself one morning as he sat opposite Mme. Polge's venerable ringlets, taking a hand in this lady's favourite game. "Yes, my good Mme. Polge, what is to become of us? Things cannot go on much longer as they are.
Very funereal in her green dress was tall Madame Polge, the ideal of dry nurses; she completed the picture. But where had the Empress's secretary gone? He was standing by a cradle, which he was scrutinizing sadly, shaking his head. "Bigre de Bigre!" whispered Pompon to Madame Polge. "It's the Wallachian."
"As you see, M. le Docteur," she replies, pointing to the beds. This tall Mme. Polge is funereal in her green dress, the ideal of dry-nurses. She completes the picture. But where has Monsieur the Departmental Secretary gone? He has stopped before a cot which he examines sadly, as he stands nodding his head. "Bigre de bigre!" says Pompon in a low voice to Mme. Polge. "It is the Wallachian."
Jenkins will not give way; the children are as obstinate as mules. There is no denying it, they will all slip through our fingers. There is the little Wallachian I mark the king, Mme. Polge who may die from one moment to another. Just think, the poor little chap for the last three days has had nothing in his stomach. It is useless for Jenkins to talk.
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