And here he is.

He alights with Jenkins and Jansoulet from a splendid coach with the red and gold livery of the Nabob.  Feigning the deepest astonishment, Pondevez rushes forward to meet his visitors.

“Ah, M. Jenkins, what an honour!  What a surprise!”

Greetings are exchanged on the flight of steps, bows, shakings of hands, introductions.  Jenkins with his flowing overcoat wide open over his loyal breast, beams his best and most cordial smile; there is a significant wrinkle on his brow, however.  He is uneasy about the surprises which may be held in store for them by the establishment, of the distressful condition of which he is better aware than any one.  If only Pondevez had taken proper precautions.  Things begin well, at any rate.  The rather theatrical view from the entrance, of those white fleeces frisking about among the bushes, have enchanted M. de la Perriere, who himself, with his honest eyes, his little white beard, and the continual nodding of his head, resembles a goat escaped from its tether.

“In the first place, gentlemen, the apartment of principal importance in the house, the nursery,” said the director, opening a massive door at the end of the entrance-hall.  His guests follow him, go down a few steps and find themselves in an immense, low room, with a tiled floor, formerly the kitchen of the mansion.  The most striking object on entering is a lofty and vast fireplace built on the antique model, of red brick, with two stone benches opposite one another beneath the chimney, and the singer’s coat of arms—­an enormous lyre barred with a roll of music—­carved on the monumental pediment.  The effect is startling; but a frightful draught comes from it, which joined to the coldness of the tile floor and the dull light admitted by the little windows on a level with the ground, may well terrify one for the health of the children.  But what was do be done?  The nursery had to be installed in this insalubrious spot on account of the sylvan and capricious nurses, accustomed to the unconstraint of the stable.  You only need to notice the pools of milk, the great reddish puddles drying up on the tiles, to breathe in the strong odour that meets you as you enter, a mingling of whey, of wet hair, and of many other things besides, in order to be convinced of the absolute necessity of this arrangement.

The gloomy-walled apartment is so large that to the visitors at first the nursery seems to be deserted.  However, at the farther end, a group of creatures, bleating, moaning, moving about, is soon distinguished.  Two peasant women, hard and brutalized in appearance, with dirty faces, two “dry-nurses,” who well deserve the name, are seated on mats, each with an infant in her arms and a big nanny-goat in front of her, offering its udder with legs parted.  The director seems pleasantly surprised.

“Truly, gentlemen, this is lucky.  Two of our children are having their little luncheon.  We shall see how well the nurses and infants understand each other.”