"There are folks who don't know their own minds," said Madame Broquette
sententiously. "It isn't my fault, and I sincerely beg you to excuse me,
doctor. If you want a good nurse you will be satisfied, for I have just
received some excellent ones from the provinces. I will show you."
Herminie, meanwhile, had not condescended to raise her nose from her
novel. She remained ensconced in her armchair, still reading, with a
weary, bored expression on her anaemic countenance. Mathieu, after
sitting down a little on one side, contented himself with looking on,
while Boutan stood erect, attentive to every detail, like a commander
reviewing his troops. And the procession began.
Having opened a door which communicated with the common room, Madame
Broquette, assuming the most noble airs, leisurely introduced the pick of
her nurses, in groups of three, each with her infant in her arms. About a
dozen were thus inspected: short ones with big heavy limbs, tall ones
suggesting maypoles, dark ones with coarse stiff hair, fair ones with the
whitest of skins, quick ones and slow ones, ugly ones and others who were
pleasant-looking. All, however, wore the same nervous, silly smile, all
swayed themselves with embarrassed timidity, the anxious mien of the
bondswoman at the slave market, who fears that she may not find a
purchaser.
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