nks, and seemed impatient at
the caresses of the two men. She would exclaim:

"How can you expect to bring a child up like that? You'll make a perfect
monkey out of him."

Years went by, and Jean was nine years old. He hardly knew how to read;
he had been so spoiled, and only did as he saw fit. He was willful,
stubborn and quick-tempered. The father always gave in to him and let
him have his own way. M. Duretour would always buy him all the toys
he wished, and he fed him on cake and candies. Then Celeste would grow
angry and exclaim:

"It's a shame, monsieur, a shame. You are spoiling this child. But it
will have to stop; yes, sir, I tell you it will have to stop, and before
long, too."

M. Lemonnier would answer, smiling:

"What can you expect? I love him too much, I can't resist him; you must
get used to it."

Jean was delicate, rather. The doctor said that he was anaemic,
prescribed iron, rare meat and broth.

But the little fellow loved only cake and refused all other nourishment;
and the father, in despair, stuffed him with cream-puffs and chocolate
eclairs.

One evening, as they were sitting down to supper, Celeste brought on the
soup with an air of authority and an assurance which she did not usually
have. She took off the cover and, dipping the ladle into the dish, she
declared:

"Here is some broth such as I have never made; the young one will have
to take some this time."

M. Lemonnier, frightened, bent his head. He saw a storm brewing.

Celeste took his plate, filled it herself and placed it in front of him.

He tasted the soup and said:

"It is, indeed, excellent."

The servant took the boy's plate and poured a spoonful of soup in it.
Then she retreated a few steps and waited.

Jean smelled the food and pushed his plate away with an expression of
disgust. Celeste, suddenly pale, quickly stepped forward and forcibly
poured a spoonful down the child's open mouth.

He choked, coughed, sneezed, spat; howling, he seized his glass and
threw it at his nurse. She received it full in the stomach. Then,
exasperated, she took the young shaver's head under her arm and began
pouring spoonful after spoonful of soup down his throat. He grew as
red as a beet, and he would cough it up, stamping, twisting, choking,
beating the air with his hands.

At first the father was so surprised that he could not move. Then,
suddenly, he rushed forward, wild with rage, seized the servant by the
throat and threw he