"She's making no noise," the midwife whispered. "It's not right not to cry out in childbirth, not natural."
"Madame is an odd woman," the lady's maid whispered back. "Never complains at anything; it's her way. She won't break it to birth a baby, not if I know her."
"Not natural," the midwife muttered again, looking at the strained and sweating woman who lay on the bed, resting between labor pains.
"She never was," said the lady's maid.
"The child won't be natural neither," said the midwife.
The lady's maid smiled a bit. "No child she bore and raised could be."
"A hard birth like this one, and still no noise." The midwife grunted, shaking her head. "I don't like it."
The maid, shushing her, dipped a cloth in cold water to wipe the mother's face. The clock was striking ten, and it was dark, the firelight casting flickering shadows across the room. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since the birth pains had begun for the slight and beautiful but steely woman who was about to bring forth her firstborn, and the midwife was hoping earnestly that the birth itself would come soon—her daughter was due with her third child any day now, and her babies did tend to be early. But for now she was stuck here, grumbling without daring to grumble, at the bedside of Madame Enjolras, oddest woman in the region who happened to be married to one of the richest men.
The contractions began again just a few minutes later, and they were harder and faster than before. By the time midnight arrived, the baby's head was emerging.
Silent, jaw set, Madame Enjolras continued to push, and the baby was, it seemed, eager—not long later the midwife was holding him up. "Madame, you've birthed a son," she announced immediately, but her face was worried.
The baby did not cry.
His breathing was fine; that was not the reason. He simply did not cry.
"Not natural," she muttered again, as she turned him upside-down and smacked him lightly.
Nothing. No sound, no cries.
"Give him to me," said the mother's firm but weary voice.
The lady's maid hastened to wash him and to wrap him against the wintery air that the fire did not quite dispel, then nestled him against his mother's side. "I'll go fetch monsieur," she murmured, straightening her cap.
The mother nodded consent, her eyes fixed on the infant beside her, who still neither cried nor clamored to nurse. He was red and wrinkled, with wide blue eyes and a good amount of fair hair—it seemed he would resemble his mother. Mme. Enjolras took him to her breast, where he proved himself hungry, and the midwife, busy straightening up around the room, went on shaking her head. What sort of healthy, normal baby didn't cry upon the sight of the outside world—and what sort of upper-class woman nursed her own child?
Fifteen minutes later, the maid was back at the door. "Your husband, madame."
"And the father of a son, I am told," said M. Enjolras.
Mme. Enjolras nodded. "A son."
"Born with the New Year, too."
The baby had finished nursing by now, and Mme. Enjolras lifted him up to his father. "He seems to be a strong boy."
"Didn't cry," the midwife interjected, half to herself. "Not natural."
M. Enjolras ignored her as he examined his child, gazing into the wide blue eyes that were levelly taking in the world. He felt an uncanny sense that the universe was shifting. Did all new parents feel that way?
Uneasy with the sensation, he gave the child back to Mme. Enjolras, who held the tiny fingers and whispered over her baby: "Child of the New Year…child of the future."