founded, and which distributed every year in the little town of Blois five hundred shirts and five hundred dresses.

In addition to all this there was a long list of "good works" in a more special sense little dowries of fifty or sixty sous bestowed on poor girls, who sometimes bore notable names, like "Jeanne the Fair," "Lawrence and Jeanne de Saint-Prest"; pensions to needy students; alms to convents; subscriptions to churches. The family of Joan of Arc had a special right to the bounty of the faithful: "Perrette de Lys" used to receive fifty sous "to bring up her own children."

Truly charity flourished in France, becoming almost a new chivalry. Certain men of the world became selfconstituted alms-collectors for a convent or nunnery, under the name of its "spiritual friends."

It cannot be said that France owed anything in this regard to the example of Italy. The Italians enjoyed large incomes, much larger than the average Frenchman of ancient and sometimes crippled fortune; but their expenses were heavier; they had to give fêtes and buy pictures and villas. Without wishing to exaggerate the significance of an anecdote, it is curious enough to compare with the excellent practices of the French Court a characteristic action on the part of Julius II. In the course of the expedition against Bologna, the Pope was told that one of the old court servants had just lost his only mule. "What did it die of?" was the Pope's curt response. "Of the bad water of Perugia." "Send the stud-master to me." Everyone believed that he was sent for to replace the defunct mule, but Julius simply said: "Take care they drink nothing but boiled water."

Many great charitable schemes were in operation in Italy, where refinement and compassion were highly developed; but the wealthy people of Italy had no great love for anonymous almsgiving. This was due, no doubt, to the fact that poverty bears itself more light-heartedly under an azure sky. In France, where, unhappily, the stars could not fill hungry mouths, the old traditions, in spite of the seductions of luxury, were nobly preserved by the women. Anne of France and Anne of Brittany both received the nickname of "Mother of Maidens," in allusion to the dowerless girls they befriended. Anne of France, who has sometimes been

taxed with avarice, contrived to dispense her benefactions quietly, as cleverly as others trumpeted theirs. At her expense intelligent children of the lower classes were kept at their studies until they had taken their degree; orphans learnt needlework or some trade; widows, cripples, beggars, poor folk too proud to beg, the broken-hearted, saw unexpected manna fall from heaven; deserving people were encouraged, sustained, uplifted, " cherished and nourished" by an unseen providence.1

How beautiful, how rare is the art of giving! In our day we see organised innumerable charitable schemes, "collections" without number, harvests of good works. But how many people give for love of giving?

Margaret of France, too, like a true princess, was generous, and loved to do good by stealth. In her anxiety not to appear to curry favour with the people, she refused-in the blunt phraseology of one of her biographers-to act “like a mountebank capering on a platform.' "She was wont to say that kings and princes are not masters and lords of the poor, but only their ministers."

The writer of a moral history must needs explore all these sweet recesses of a woman's soul, where so mysterious a work is accomplished. Later on we shall see the women bustling about on the public stage, giving the world what it demands of them. Here, in the silence of the heart, they act only for themselves; yet, even from the social standpoint, they will never do a loftier or more efficacious work. On the rugged path on which so many of the unhappy are apt to lose their philosophy, is it not well to spread a soft thick carpet, so that the wayfarers may step more lightly and be less roughly jolted? This of itself is surely a genuine work of love, in full accord with the words of Christ: "To her much shall be forgiven, for she loved much!" From the very outset of their life, painfully spelling out the meaning of wedlock, women are, almost unknown to themselves, winging their flight towards the ideal, towards love. Here, love calls itself charity, that is to say, love for the sick, love for the poor, love for all who are weak and all who suffer.

1She provided for so many maidens "by way of marriage, and had so great care of them, that she deserved to be named their mother.”—La l'auguyon.

CHAPTER III

THE CHILDREN

THEIR mission as mothers, thanks to the precautions of which we have spoken, did not weigh very heavily upon the women. The tide was set against large families; in the country, six children were thought an enormous encumbrance, and as a rule the higher the rank the smaller the family. There were not a few houses which had no children at all. Somewhere in Lombardy, indeed, there was an old law granting exemption from taxes to families of twelve children, but it did not result in an embarrassed exchequer.

The physicians questioned on this phenomenon return only evasive explanations. Placing themselves as they did at a special standpoint, they held the women more especially responsible, accusing the detestable experiments some of them indulged in with a view to preserving their figure, such as drinking water or vinegar, eating sour foods, never setting foot to ground; or a life at high pressure, well calculated to develop morbid germs and increase nervous over-excitement; the sort of St. Vitus's dance which affects some people; and the thousand other causes of moral and cerebral derangement. Evidently, in their view, nothing would be so likely to facilitate motherhood as a life spent in feeding the pigs and the poultry.

Yet women resign themselves better than men to the trials that a family brings upon them.

When they first recognise their condition, even those who do not feel called upon to make too much of their duty heroically accept their lot. No one pities them; it is natural

to them to love children, and if there are moments of anguish to fear, there are also blissful moments to look forward to. The husband, on the other hand, is disconsolate; he regrets everything; he sees in the cold light of reason the consequences of the event, and his friends agree that he will reap nothing but worries. A man of fashion collects pictures, antiques, not children. Some charitable souls suggest that children assure a kind of survival, are a pledge of immortality, a security for the continuance of the race; but, for that matter, a much simpler, surer and more comfortable way of achieving immortality is simply to write a sonnet. Hardly any but poor drudges, "chestnut eaters," can afford the luxury of being fruitful and multiplying, because for them, in their kind of work, with their rigorous enforcement of paternal authority, a swarm of children represents an immediate increase of earning-power and tools at very little cost. A middle-class householder, who loves his ease or is ambitious only to swell his banking account, has nothing to gain by a large family.

Among the middle class, then, the budding father is the subject of sincere commiseration. What cares, what vexations will be his! He regards himself as bound for some time to consider the slightest whim of his wife as sacred. With a flutter at the heart he hies him to the astrologer to ascertain at least if it is a boy or a girl; and when the unfeeling stars announce a girl, he still manages to smile.

One fine day (or fine night, for Nature is whimsical in her choice), see him, lantern in hand, chilled to the marrow, shivering, running off to find the nurse; and then what terrible, what wearing hours follow! In very truth it is he who demands pity, for Providence, having failed to foresee these moments for the man, has forgotten to give him strength equal to them. How ardently he wishes it were all over! "There is no saint in the calendar," he

1 Quattuor sunt que mulieres summe cupiunt :

A formosis amari juvenibus,

Pollere filiis pluribus,

Ornari preciosis vestibus,

Et dominari pre ceteris in domibus.

-Tractaculi sive opusculi.

["Four things there are that women eagerly covet: to be loved by handsome youths; to be good for many sons; to be decked out in costly array; and to rule the roost."]

cries, "but shall have his candle!" The first wail of the newcomer pours balm on the mother's heart; but what of the husband? Can he spare time to admire this shapeless, unsightly little creature? He seeks nurses for mother and child, he has the room hung with red, covers the floor with velvet rugs; if by good luck he falls asleep in a corner, it is only in his dreams to see a spectral balance-sheet dancing a frantic saraband. No, he has not his wife's strength.

The red room becomes for the young mother a palace of delight. It was a charity to visit a relative, friend, or neighbour when recovery was assured, and very few women would risk losing paradise for such a trifle. And so the room is never empty. There the lady holds a "regal court," or what we, with less enthusiasm, should call a woman's club. We may fancy how they chatter, how often the husband is hauled over the coals, how they cry shame on him. "What! this shabby dress! He wouldn't give you this or that? Ah, the old skinflint!"

There prevailed in Italy the very amiable practice of sending all sorts of little presents-flowers, fruit, trinkets, nicknacks. The young mother was entitled also to a little tray, painted or chased, of which charming specimens exist, real works of art. All these presents came in a heap. With his grave and masculine brush, Domenico Ghirlandajo has depicted for us a scene at Santa-Maria-Novella: a maidservant is presenting a cordial on the tray, a friend is amusing herself with the baby, a high-born dame is making her entry in great dignity, a message-girl is bringing in a superb basket of fruit. It is a constant stream of visitors, wonderfully picturesque.

As to the husband, he has disappeared among his occupations and his worries; he reappears a fortnight later, to return these civilities with a grand dinner.

The child is to belong to the mother until the eighth year; an exquisite period in which the heart will expand. It is as she clasps in her arms this feeble little creature, this messenger from a new world, that a woman comprehends love; life appears to her all bathed in a mysterious light, golden, and warm, and glad. All women, whether cultivated or illiterate, have this sensation.

For some time, perhaps for several years, a mother can thus find the restfulness that springs from happiness, and, in