The necessity of providing for his little living
family had quite disenthralled Monsieur C---- from any weakly
sentimentality in regard to his little dead family.
So I do not know why I shuddered, being also myself somewhat of a
philosopher,--of such cool philosophy as grows out inevitably from the
hard and stony strata of an overworked life. The sleeper within
was certainly better cared for now than he ever had been in life.
Monsieur's purse afforded no holiday-dress but a shroud; three of
these in requisition within so short a time quite scanted the wardrobe
of the other children. Little Jacques had always been a somewhat
restless and unhappy baby, longing for fresh air, and a change which
he never got; it seemed likely, so far as the child's promise was
concerned, that the "great change" was his only chance of variety, and
the very best thing that could have happened to him.
And yet, after all, there was something about his death which
individualized it, and hung a certain sadness over its occurrence that
does not often belong to the death of children, or at least had not
marked the departure of his two stout little brothers. Scarlet-fever
and croup and measles are such every-day, red-winged, mottled angels,
that no one is appalled at their presence; they take off the little
sufferer in such vigorous fashion, clutch him with so hearty a
grip, that one is compelled to open the door, let them out, and
feel relieved when the exit is made.
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