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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/3925.txt b/3925.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3cf6db5 --- /dev/null +++ b/3925.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3205 @@ +The Project Gutenberg Etext of MM. and Bebe, by Gustave Droz, v3 +#12 in our series The French Immortals Crowned by the French Academy +#3 in our series by Gustave Droz + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. + +Please do not remove this. + +This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book. +Do not change or edit it without written permission. 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D.W.] + + + + + +MONSIEUR, MADAME AND BEBE + +By GUSTAVE DROZ + + + +BOOK 3. + + +CHAPTER XX + +THE HOT-WATER BOTTLE + +When midnight strikes, when the embers die away into ashes, when the lamp +burns more feebly and your eyes close in spite of yourself, the best +thing to do, dear Madame, is to go to bed. + +Get up from your armchair, take off your bracelets, light your +rosecolored taper, and proceed slowly, to the soft accompaniment of your +trailing skirt, rustling across the carpet, to your dressing-room, that +perfumed sanctuary in which your beauty, knowing itself to be alone, +raises its veils, indulges in self-examination, revels in itself and +reckons up its treasures as a miser does his wealth. + +Before the muslin-framed mirror, which reveals all that it sees so well, +you pause carelessly and with a smile give one long satisfied look, then +with two fingers you withdraw the pin that kept up your hair, and its +long, fair tresses unroll and fall in waves, veiling your bare shoulders. +With a coquettish hand, the little finger of which is turned up, you +caress, as you gather them together, the golden flood of your abundant +locks, while with the other you pass through them the tortoiseshell comb +that buries itself in the depths of this fair forest and bends with the +effort. + +Your tresses are so abundant that your little hand can scarcely grasp +them. They are so long that your outstretched arm scarcely reaches their +extremity. Hence it is not without difficulty that you manage to twist +them up and imprison them in your embroidered night-cap. + +This first duty accomplished, you turn the silver tap, and the pure and +limpid water pours into a large bowl of enamelled porcelain. You throw +in a few drops of that fluid which perfumes and softens the skin, and +like a nymph in the depths of a quiet wood preparing for the toilet, you +remove the drapery that might encumber you. + +But what, Madame, you frown? Have I said too much or not enough? Is it +not well known that you love cold water; and do you think it is not +guessed that at the contact of the dripping sponge you quiver from head +to foot? + +But what matters it, your toilette for the night is completed, you are +fresh, restored, and white as a nun in your embroidered dressing-gown, +you dart your bare feet into satin slippers and reenter your bedroom, +shivering slightly. To see you walking thus with hurried steps, wrapped +tightly in your dressing-gown, and with your pretty head hidden in its +nightcap, you might be taken for a little girl leaving the confessional +after confessing some terrible sin. + +Gaining the bedside, Madame lays aside her slippers, and lightly and +without effort, bounds into the depths of the alcove. + +However, Monsieur, who was already asleep with his nose on the Moniteur, +suddenly wakes up at the movement imparted to the bed. + +"I thought that you were in bed already, dear," he murmurs, falling off +to sleep again. "Good-night." + +"If I had been in bed you would have noticed it." Madame stretches out +her feet and moves them about; she seems to be in quest of something. "I +am not in such a hurry to go to sleep as you are, thank goodness." + +Monsieur, suddenly and evidently annoyed, says: "But what is the matter, +my dear? You fidget and fidget--I want to sleep." He turns over as he +speaks. + +"I fidget! I am simply feeling for my hot-water bottle; you are +irritating." + +"Your hot-water bottle?" is Monsieur's reply, with a grunt. + +"Certainly, my hot-water bottle, my feet are frozen." She goes on +feeling for it. "You are really very amiable this evening; you began by +dozing over the 'Revue des Deux Mondes', and I find you snoring over the +'Moniteur'. In your place I should vary my literature. I am sure you +have taken my hot-water bottle." + +"I have been doing wrong. I will subscribe to the 'Tintamarre' in +future. Come, good-night, my dear." He turns over. "Hello, your hot- +water bottle is right at the bottom of the bed; I can feel it with the +tips of my toes." + +"Well, push it up; do you think that I can dive down there after it?" + +"Shall I ring for your maid to help you?" He makes a movement of ill- +temper, pulls the clothes up to his chin, and buries his head in the +pillow. "Goodnight, my dear." + +Madame, somewhat vexed, says: "Good-night, goodnight." + +The respiration of Monsieur grows smooth, and even his brows relax, his +forehead becomes calm, he is on the point of losing all consciousness of +the realities of this life. + +Madame taps lightly on her husband's shoulder. + +"Hum," growls Monsieur. + +Madame taps again. + +"Well, what is it?" + +Madame, in an angelic tone of voice, "My dear, would you put out the +candle?" + +Monsieur, without opening his eyes, "The hot-water bottle, the candle, +the candle, the hot-water bottle." + +"Good heavens! how irritable you are, Oscar. I will put it out myself. +Don't trouble yourself. You really have a very bad temper, my dear; you +are angry, and if you were goaded a little, you would, in five minutes, +be capable of anything." + +Monsieur, his voice smothered in the pillow, "No, not at all; I am +sleepy, dear, that is all. Good-night, my dear." + +Madame, briskly, "You forget that in domestic life good feeling has for +its basis reciprocal consideration." + +"I was wrong--come, good-night." He raises himself up a little. "Would +you like me to kiss you?" + +"I don't want you to, but I permit." She puts her face toward that of +her husband, who kisses her on the forehead. "You are really too good, +you have kissed my nightcap." + +Monsieur, smiling, "Your hair smells very nice . . . You see I am so +sleepy. Ah! you have it in little plaits, you are going to wave it +to-morrow." + +"To wave it. You were the first to find that that way of dressing it +became me, besides, it is the fashion, and tomorrow is my reception day. +Come, you irritable man, embrace me once for all and snore at your ease, +you are dying to do so." + +She holds her neck toward her husband. + +Monsieur, laughing, "In the first place, I never snore. I never joke." +He kisses his wife's neck, and rests his head on her shoulder. + +"Well, what are you doing there?" is her remark. + +"I am digesting my kiss." + +Madame affects the lackadaisical, and looks sidewise at her husband with +an eye half disarmed. Monsieur sniffs the loved perfume with open +nostrils. + +After a period of silence he whispers in his wife's ear, "I am not at all +sleepy now, dear. Are your feet still cold? I will find the hot-water +bottle." + +"Oh, thanks, put out the light and let us go to sleep; I am quite tired +out." + +She turns round by resting her arm on his face. + +"No, no, I won't have you go to sleep with your feet chilled; there is +nothing worse. There, there is the hot-water bottle, warm your poor +little feet . . . there . . . like that." + +"Thanks, I am very comfortable. Good-night, dear, let us go to sleep." + +"Good-night, my dear." + +After a long silence Monsieur turns first on one side and then on the +other, and ends by tapping lightly on his wife's shoulder. + +Madame, startled, "What is the matter? Good heavens! how you startled +me!" + +Monsieur, smiling, "Would you be kind enough to put out the candle?" + +"What! is it for that you wake me up in the middle of my sleep? I shall +not be able to doze again. You are unbearable." + +"You find me unbearable?" He comes quite close to his wife; "Come, let +me explain my idea to you." + +Madame turns round--her eye meets the eye . . . full of softness . . +of her husband. "Dear me," she says, "you are a perfect tiger." + +Then, putting her mouth to his ear, she murmurs with a smile, "Come, +explain your idea, for the sake of peace and quiet." + +Madame, after a very long silence, and half asleep, "Oscar!" + +Monsieur, his eyes closed, in a faint voice, "My dear." + +"How about the candle? it is still alight." + +"Ah! the candle. I will put it out. If you were very nice you would +give me a share of your hot-water bottle; one of my feet is frozen. +Good-night." + +"Good-night." + +They clasp hands and fall asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +A LONGING + + MONSIEUR and MADAME are quietly sitting together--The clock has just + struck ten--MONSIEUR is in his dressing-gown and slippers, is + leaning back in an armchair and reading the newspaper--MADAME is + carelessly working squares of laces. + +Madame--Such things have taken place, have they not, dear? + +Monsieur--(without raising his eyes)--Yes, my dear. + +Madame--There, well I should never have believed it. But they are +monstrous, are they not? + +Monsieur--(without raising his eyes)--Yes, my dear. + +Madame--Well, and yet, see how strange it is, Louise acknowledged it to +me last month, you know; the evening she called for me to go to the +perpetual Adoration, and our hour of adoration, as it turned out, by the +way, was from six to seven; impossible, too, to change our turn; none of +the ladies caring to adore during dinner-time, as is natural enough. +Good heavens, what a rage we were in! How good God must be to have +forgiven you. Do you remember? + +Monsieur--(continuing to read)--Yes, dear. + +Madame--Ah! you remember that you said, 'I don't care a . . .' Oh! +but I won't repeat what you said, it is too naughty. How angry you were! +'I will go and dine at the restaurant, confound it!' But you did not say +confound, ha! ha! ha! Well, I loved you just the same at that moment; +it vexed me to see you in a rage on God's account, but for my own part I +was pleased; I like to see you in a fury; your nostrils expand, and then +your moustache bristles, you put me in mind of a lion, and I have always +liked lions. When I was quite a child at the Zoological Gardens they +could not get me away from them; I threw all my sous into their cage for +them to buy gingerbread with; it was quite a passion. Well, to continue +my story. (She looks toward her husband who is still reading, and after +a pause,) Is it interesting-that which you are reading? + +Monsieur--(like a man waking up)--What is it, my dear child? What I am +reading? Oh, it would scarcely interest you. (With a grimace.) There +are Latin phrases, you know, and, besides, I am hoarse. But I am +listening, go, on. (He resumes his newspaper.) + +Madame--Well, to return to the perpetual Adoration, Louise confided to +me, under the pledge of secrecy, that she was like me. + +Monsieur--Like you? What do you mean? + +Madame--Like me; that is plain enough. + +Monsieur--You are talking nonsense, my little angel, follies as great as +your chignon. You women will end by putting pillows into your chignons. + +Madame--(resting her elbows on her husband's knees)--But, after all, the +instincts, the resemblances we have, must certainly be attributed to +something. Can any one imagine, for instance, that God made your cousin +as stupid as he is, and with a head like a pear? + +Monsieur--My cousin! my cousin! Ferdinand is only a cousin by marriage. +I grant, however, that he is not very bright. + +Madame--Well, I am sure that his mother must have had a longing, or +something. + +Monsieur--What can I do to help it, my angel? + +Madame--Nothing at all; but it clearly shows that such things are not to +be laughed at; and if I were to tell you that I had a longing-- + +Monsieur--(letting fall his newspaper)--The devil! a longing for what? + +Madame--Ah! there your nostrils are dilating; you are going to resemble a +lion again, and I never shall dare to tell you. It is so extraordinary, +and yet my mother had exactly the same longing. + +Monsieur--Come, tell it me, you see that I am patient. If it is possible +to gratify it, you know that I love you, my . . . Don't kiss me on the +neck; you will make me jump up to the ceiling, my darling. + +Madame--Repeat those two little words. I am your darling, then? + +Monsieur--Ha! ha! ha! She has little fingers which --ha! ha!-- +go into your neck--ha! ha!--you will make me break something, nervous as I +am. + +Madame--Well, break something. If one may not touch one's husband, one +may as well go into a convent at once. (She puts her lips to MONSIEUR'S +ear and coquettishly pulls the end of his moustache.) I shall not be +happy till I have what I am longing for, and then it would be so kind of +you to do it. + +Monsieur--Kind to do what? Come, dear, explain yourself. + +Madame--You must first of all take off that great, ugly dressing-gown, +pull on your boots, put on your hat and go. Oh, don't make any faces; +if you grumble in the least all the merit of your devotedness will +disappear . . . and go to the grocer's at the corner of the street, +a very respectable shop. + +Monsieur--To the grocer's at ten o'clock at night! Are you mad? I will +ring for John; it is his business. + +Madame (staying his hand) You indiscreet man. These are our own private +affairs; we must not take any one into our confidence. I will go into +your dressing-room to get your things, and you will put your boots on +before the fire comfortably . . . to please me, Alfred, my love, my +life. I would give my little finger to have . . . + +Monsieur--To have what, hang it all, what, what, what? + +Madame--(her face alight and fixing her eyes on him)--I want a sou's +worth of paste. Had not you guessed it? + +Monsieur--But it is madness, delirium, fol-- + +Madame--I said paste, dearest; only a sou's worth, wrapped in strong +paper. + +Monsieur--No, no. I am kind-hearted, but I should reproach myself-- + +Madame--(closing his mouth with her little hands)--Oh, not a word; you +are going to utter something naughty. But when I tell you that I have a +mad longing for it, that I love you as I have never loved you yet, that +my mother had the same desire--Oh! my poor mother (she weeps in her +hands), if she could only know, if she were not at the other end of +France. You have never cared for my parents; I saw that very well on our +wedding-day, and (she sobs) it will be the sorrow of my whole life. + +Monsieur--(freeing himself and suddenly rising)--Give me my boots. + +Madame--(with effusion)--Oh, thanks, Alfred, my love, you are good, yes, +you are good. Will you have your walking-stick, dear? + +Monsieur--I don't care. How much do you want of that abomination--a +franc's worth, thirty sous' worth, a louis' worth? + +Madame--You know very well that I would not make an abuse of it-only a +sou's worth. I have some sous for mass; here, take one. Adieu, Alfred; +be quick; be quick! + +(Exit MONSIEUR.) + +Left alone, Madame wafts a kiss in her most tender fashion toward the +door Monsieur has just closed behind him, then goes toward the glass and +smiles at herself with pleasure. Then she lights the wax candle in a +little candlestick, and quietly makes her way to the kitchen, noiselessly +opens a press, takes out three little dessert plates, bordered with gold +and ornamented with her initials, next takes from a box lined with white +leather, two silver spoons, and, somewhat embarrassed by all this +luggage, returns to her bedroom. + +Then she pokes the fire, draws a little buhl table close up to the +hearth, spreads a white cloth, sets out the plates, puts the spoons by +them, and enchanted, impatient, with flushed complexion, leans back in an +armchair. Her little foot rapidly taps the floor, she smiles, pouts-- +she is waiting. + +At last, after an interval of some minutes, the outer door is heard to +close, rapid steps cross the drawingroom, Madame claps her hands and +Monsieur comes in. He does not look very pleased, as he advances holding +awkwardly in his left hand a flattened parcel, the contents of which may +be guessed. + +Madame--(touching a gold-bordered plate and holding it out to her +husband)--Relieve yourself of it, dear. Could you not have been quicker? + +Monsieur--Quicker? + +Madame--Oh! I am not angry with you, that is not meant for a reproach, +you are an angel; but it seems to me a century since you started. + +Monsieur--The man was just going to shut his shop up. My gloves are +covered with it . . . it's sticky . . . it's horrid, pah! the +abomination! At last I shall have peace and quietness. + +Madame--Oh! no harsh words, they hurt me so. But look at this pretty +little table, do you remember how we supped by the fireside? Ah! you +have forgotten it, a man's heart has no memory. + +Monsieur--Are you so mad as to imagine that I am going to touch it? Oh! +indeed! that is carrying-- + +Madame--(sadly)--See what a state you get in over a little favor I ask of +you. If in order to please me you were to overcome a slight repugnance, +if you were just to touch this nice, white jelly with you lips, where +would be the harm? + +Monsieur--The harm! the harm! it would be ridiculous. Never. + +Madame--That is the reason? "It would be absurd." It is not from +disgust, for there is nothing disgusting there, it is flour and water, +nothing more. It is not then from a dislike, but out of pride that you +refuse? + +Monsieur--(shrugging his shoulders)--What you say is childish, puerile, +silly. I do not care to answer it. + +Madame--And what you say is neither generous nor worthy of you, since you +abuse your superiority. You see me at your feet pleading for an +insignificant thing, puerile, childish, foolish, perhaps, but one which +would give me pleasure, and you think it heroic not to yield. Do you +want me to speak out, well? then, you men are unfeeling. + +Monsieur--Never. + +Madame--Why, you admitted it to me yourself one night, on the Pont des +Arts, as we were walking home from the theatre. + +Monsieur--After all, there is no great harm in that. + +Madame--(sadly)--I am not angry with you, this sternness is part of your +nature, you are a rod of iron. + +Monsieur--I have some energy when it is needed, I grant you, but I have +not the absurd pride you imagine, and there (he dips his finger in the +paste and carries it to his lips), is the proof, you spoilt child. Are +you satisfied? It has no taste, it is insipid. + +Madame--You were pretending. + +Monsieur--I swear to you . . . + +Madame (taking a little soon, filling it with her precious paste and +holding it to her husband's lips)--I want to see the face you will make, +love. + +Monsieur--(Puts out his lips, buries his two front teeth, with marked +disgust, in the paste, makes a horrible face and spits into the +fireplace)--Eugh. + +Madame--(still holding the spoon and with much interest) Well? + +Monsieur--Well! it is awful! oh! awful! taste it. + +Madame--(dreamily stirring the paste with the spoon, her little finger in +the air)--I should never have believed that it was so nasty. + +Monsieur--You will soon see for yourself, taste it, taste it. + +Madame--I am in no hurry, I have plenty of time. + +Monsieur--To see what it is like. Taste a little, come. + +Madame--(pushing away the plate with a look of horror)--Oh! how you +worry me. Be quiet, do; for a trifle I could hate you. It is +disgusting, this paste of yours! + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +FAMILY LIFE + +It was the evening of the 15th of February. It was dreadfully cold. The +snow drove against the windows and the wind whistled furiously under the +doors. My two aunts, seated at a table in one corner of the drawing- +room, gave vent from time to time to deep sighs, and, wriggling in their +armchairs, kept casting uneasy glances toward the bedroom door. One of +them had taken from a little leather bag placed on the table her blessed +rosary and was repeating her prayers, while her sister was reading a +volume of Voltaire's correspondence which she held at a distance from her +eyes, her lips moving as she perused it. + +For my own part, I was striding up and down the room, gnawing my +moustache, a bad habit I have never been able to get rid of, and halting +from time to time in front of Dr. C., an old friend of mine, who was +quietly reading the paper in the most comfortable of the armchairs. +I dared not disturb him, so absorbed did he seem in what he was reading, +but in my heart I was furious to see him so quiet when I myself was so +agitated. + +Suddenly he tossed the paper on to the couch and, passing his hand across +his bald and shining head, said: + +"Ah! if I were a minister, it would not take long, no, it would not be +very long . . . . You have read that article on Algerian cotton. One +of two things, either irrigation . . . . But you are not listening to +me, and yet it is a more serious matter than you think." + +He rose, and with his hands in his pocket, walked across the room humming +an old medical student's song. I followed him closely. + +"Jacques," said I, as he turned round, "tell me frankly, are you +satisfied?" + +"Yes, yes, I am satisfied . . . observe my untroubled look," and he +broke into his hearty and somewhat noisy laugh. + +"You are not hiding anything from me, my dear fellow?" + +"What a donkey you are, old fellow. I tell you that everything is going +on well." + +And he resumed his song, jingling the money in his pockets. + +"All is going on well, but it will take some time," he went on. "Let me +have one of your dressing-gowns. I shall be more comfortable for the +night, and these ladies will excuse me, will they not?" + +"Excuse you, I should think so, you, the doctor, and my friend!" I felt +devotedly attached to him that evening. + +"Well, then, if they will excuse me, you can very well let me have a pair +of slippers." + +At this moment a cry came from the next room and we distinctly heard +these words in a stifled voice: + +"Doctor . . . oh! mon Dieu! . . . doctor!" + +"It is frightful," murmured my aunts. + +"My dear friend," I exclaimed, seizing the doctor's arm," you are quite +sure you are not concealing anything from me?" + +"If you have a very loose pair they will suit me best; I have not the +foot of a young girl . . . . I am not concealing anything, I am not +concealing anything . . . . What do you think I should hide from you? +It is all going on very well, only as I said it will take time-- By the +way, tell Joseph to get me one of your smokingcaps; once in dressing-gown +and slippers a smokingcap is not out of the way, and I am getting bald, +my dear Captain. How infernally cold it is here! These windows face the +north, and there are no sand-bags. Mademoiselle de V.," he added, +turning to my aunt, "you will catch cold." + +Then as other sounds were heard, he said: "Let us go and see the little +lady." + +"Come here," said my wife, who had caught sight of me, in a low voice, +"come here and shake hands with me." Then she drew me toward her and +whispered in my ear: "You will be pleased to kiss the little darling, +won't you?" Her voice was so faint and so tender as she said this, and +she added: "Do not take your hand away, it gives me courage." + +I remained beside her, therefore, while the doctor, who had put on my +dressing-gown, vainly strove to button it. + +From time to time my poor little wife squeezed my hand violently, closing +her eyes, but not uttering a cry. The fire sparkled on the hearth. The +pendulum of the clock went on with its monotonous ticking, but it seemed +to me that all this calm was only apparent, that everything about me must +be in a state of expectation like myself and sharing my emotion. In the +bedroom beyond, the door of which was ajar, I could see the end of the +cradle and the shadow of the nurse who was dozing while she waited. + +What I felt was something strange. I felt a new sentiment springing up +in my heart, I seemed to have some foreign body within my breast, and +this sweet sensation was so new to me that I was, as it were, alarmed at +it. I felt the little creature, who was there without yet being there, +clinging to me; his whole life unrolled itself before me. I saw him at +the same time a child and a grown-up man; it seemed to me that my own +life was about to be renewed in his and I felt from time to time an +irresistible need of giving him something of myself. + +Toward half-past eleven, the doctor, like a captain consulting his +compass, pulled out his watch, muttered something and drew near the bed. + +"Come, my dear lady," said he to my wife, "courage, we are all round you +and all is going well; within five minutes you will hear him cry out." + +My mother-in-law, almost beside herself, was biting her lips and each +pang of the sufferer was reflected upon her face. Her cap had got +disarranged in such a singular fashion that, under any other +circumstances, I should have burst out laughing. At that moment I heard +the drawing-room door open and saw the heads of my aunts, one above the +other, and behind them that of my father, who was twisting his heavy +white moustache with a grimace that was customary to him. + +"Shut the door," cried the doctor, angrily, "don't bother me." + +And with the greatest coolness in the world he turned to my mother-in-law +and added, "I ask a thousand pardons." + +But just then there was something else to think of than my old friend's +bluntness. + +"Is everything ready to receive him?" he continued, growling. + +"Yes, my dear doctor," replied my mother-in-law. + +At length, the doctor lifted into the air a little object which almost +immediately uttered a cry as piercing as a needle. I shall never forget +the impression produced on me by this poor little thing, making its +appearance thus, all of a sudden, in the middle of the family. We had +thought and dreamed of it; I had seen him in my mind's eye, my darling +child, playing with a hoop, pulling my moustache, trying to walk, or +gorging himself with milk in his nurse's arms like a gluttonous little +kitten; but I had never pictured him to myself, inanimate, almost +lifeless, quite tiny, wrinkled, hairless, grinning, and yet, charming, +adorable, and be loved in spite of all-poor, ugly, little thing. It was +a strange impression, and so singular that it is impossible to understand +it, without having experienced it. + +"What luck you have!" said the doctor, holding the child toward me; "it +is a boy." + +"A boy!" + +"And a fine one." + +"Really, a boy!" + +That was a matter of indifference to me now. What was causing me +indescribable emotion was the living proof of paternity, this little +being who was my own. I felt stupefied in presence of the great mystery +of childbirth. My wife was there, fainting, overcame, and the little +living creature, my own flesh, my own blood, was squalling and +gesticulating in the hands of Jacques. I was overwhelmed, like a workman +who had unconsciously produced a masterpiece. I felt myself quite small +in presence of this quivering piece of my own handiwork, and, frankly, a +little bit ashamed of having made it so well almost without troubling +about it. I can not undertake to explain all this, I merely relate my +impressions. + +My mother-in-law held out her apron and the doctor placed the child on +his grandmother's knees, saying: "Come, little savage, try not to be any +worse than your rascal of a father. Now for five minutes of emotion. +Come, Captain, embrace me." + +We did so heartily. The doctor's little black eyes twinkled more +brightly than usual; I saw very well that he was moved. + +"Did it make you feel queer, Captain? I mean the cry? Ah! I know it, +it is like a needle through the heart . . . . Where is the nurse? +Ah! here she is. No matter, he is a fine boy, your little lancer. +Open the door for the prisoners in the drawing-room." + +I opened the door. Every one was listening on the other side of it. My +father, my two aunts, still holding in their hands, one her rosary and +the other her Voltaire, my own nurse, poor old woman, who had come in a +cab. + +"Well," they exclaimed anxiously, "well?" + +"It is all over, it is a boy; go in, he is there." + +You can not imagine how happy I was to see on all their faces the +reflection of my own emotion. They embraced me and shook hands with me, +and I responded to all these marks of affection without exactly knowing +where they came from. + +"Damn it all!" muttered my father, in my ear, holding me in his arms, +with his stick still in his hand and his hat on his head, "Damn it all!" + +But he could not finish, however brave he might wish to appear; a big +tear was glittering at the tip of his nose. He muttered "Hum!" under +his moustache and finally burst into tears on my shoulder, saying: "I can +not help it." + +And I did likewise--I could not help it either. + +However, everybody was flocking round the grandmamma, who lifted up a +corner of her apron and said: + +"How pretty he is, the darling, how pretty! Nurse, warm the linen, give +me the caps." + +"Smile at your aunty," said my aunt, jangling her rosary above the baby's +head, "smile at aunty." + +"Ask him at the same time to recite a fable," said the doctor. + +Meanwhile my wife was coming to herself; she half opened her eyes and +seemed to be looking for something. + +"Where is he?" she murmured in a faint voice. + +They showed her her mother's apron. + +"A boy, is it not?" + +Taking my hand, she drew me down toward her and said in a whisper, +"Are you satisfied with me? I did my best, dear." + +"Come, no emotion," exclaimed the doctor, "you shall kiss each other +tomorrow. Colonel," he said to my father, who still retained his hat and +stick, "keep them from kissing. No emotion, and every one outside. I am +going to dress the little lancer. Give me the little man, grandmamma. +Come here, little savage. You shall see whether I don't know how to +fasten pins in." + +He took the baby in his two large hands and sat down on a stool before +the fire. + +I watched my boy whom Jacques was turning about like a doll, but with +great skill. He examined him all over, touching and feeling him, and at +each test said with a smile: + +"He is a fine one, he is a fine one." + +Then he rolled him up in his clothes, put a triple cap on his little bald +head, tied a folded ribbon under his chin to prevent his head falling +backward, and then, satisfied with his work, said: + +"You saw how I did it, nurse? Well, you must dress this lancer every +morning in the same way. Nothing but a little sugar and water till to- +morrow. The mother has no fever. Come, all is going on well. + +Lucky Captain! I am so hungry. Do you know that it is one in the +morning? You haven't got cold partridge or a bit of pie that you don't +know what to do with, have you? It would suit me down to the ground, +with a bottle of something." + +We went both into the dining-room and laid the cloth without any more +ceremony. + +I never in my life ate and drank so much as on that occasion. + +"Come, get off to bed," said the doctor, putting on his coat. "To-morrow +morning you shall have the wet-nurse. No, by the way, I'll call for you, +and we will go and choose her together; it is curious. Be under arms at +half-past eight." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +NEW YEAR'S DAY + +It is barely seven o'clock. A pale ray of daylight is stealing through +the double curtains, and already some one is tapping at the door. I can +hear in the next room from the stifled laughter and the silvery tones of +Baby, who is quivering with impatience, and asking leave to come in. + +"Papa," he cries, "it is Baby, it is Baby come for the New Year." + +"Come in, my darling; come quick, and kiss us." + +The door opens and my boy, his eyes aglow, and his arms raised, rushes +toward the bed. His curls, escaping from the nightcap covering his head, +float on his forehead. His long, loose night-shirt, catching his little +feet, increases his impatience, and causes him to stumble at every step. + +At length he crosses the room, and, holding out his two hands to mine: +"Baby wishes you a Happy New Year," he says, in an earnest voice. + +"Poor little love, with his bare feet! Come, darling, and warm yourself +under the counterpane." + +I lift him toward me, but at this moment my wife, who is asleep, suddenly +wakes. + +"Who is there?" she exclaims, feeling for the bell. "Thieves!" + +"It is we two, dear." + +"Who? Good heavens! how you frightened me! I was dreaming the house +was on fire, and that I heard your voice amid the raging flames. You +were very indiscreet in shouting like that!" + +"Shouting! but you forget, mamma, that it is New Year's Day, the day of +smiles and kisses? Baby was waiting for you to wake up, as well as +myself." + +However, I wrap the little fellow up in the eiderdown quilt and warm his +cold feet in my hands. + +"Mamma, it is New Year's Day," he exclaims. With his arms he draws our +two heads together, puts forward his own and kisses us at haphazard with +his moist lips. I feel his dimpled fists digging into my neck, his +little fingers entangled in my beard. + +My moustache tickles the tip of his nose, and he bursts into a fit of +joyous laughter as he throws his head back. + +His mother, who has recovered from her fright, takes him in her arms and +rings the bell. + +"The year is beginning well, dear," she says, "but we must have a little +daylight." + +"Mamma, naughty children don't have any new toys on New Year's Day, do +they?" + +And as he says this the sly fellow eyes a pile of parcels and packages +heaped up in one corner, visible despite the semidarkness. + +Soon the curtains are drawn aside, and the shutters opened; daylight +floods the room; the fire crackles merrily on the hearth, and two large +parcels, carefully tied up, are placed on the bed. One is for my wife, +and the other for my boy. + +"What is it? What is it?" I have multiplied the knots and tripled the +wrappings, and I gleefully follow their impatient fingers entangled among +the strings. + +My wife gets impatient, smiles, pouts, kisses me, and asks for the +scissors. + +Baby on his side tugs with all his might, biting his lips as he does so, +and ends by asking my help. His look strives to penetrate the wrappers. +All the signs of desire and expectation are stamped on his face. His +hand, hidden under the coverlet, causes the silk to rustle with his +convulsive movements, and his lips quiver as at the approach of some +dainty. + +At length the last paper falls aside. The lid is lifted, and joy breaks +forth. + +"A fur tippet!" + +"A Noah's ark!" + +"To match my muff, dear, kind husband." + +"With a Noah on wheels, dear papa. I do love you so." + +They throw themselves on my neck, four arms are clasped round me at once. +Emotion gets the better of me, and a tear steals into my eye. There are +two in those of my wife, and Baby, losing his head, sobs as he kisses my +hand. + +It is absurd. + +Absurd, I don't know; but delightful, I can answer for it. + +Does not grief, after all, call forth enough tears for us to forgive joy +the solitary one she perchance causes us to shed! + +Life is not so sweet for us to risk ourselves in it singlehanded, and +when the heart is empty the way seems very long. + +It is so pleasant to feel one's self loved, to hear beside one the +cadenced steps of one's fellow-travellers, and to say, "They are here, +our three hearts beat in unison." So pleasant once a year, when the +great clock strikes the first of January, to sit down beside the path, +with hands locked together, and eyes fixed on the unknown dusty road +losing itself in the horizon, and to say, while embracing one another, +"We still love one another, my dear children; you rely on me, and I rely +on you. Let us have confidence, and walk steadfastly." + +This is how I explain that one may weep a little while examining a new +fur tippet and opening a Noah's ark. + +But breakfast time draws near. I have cut myself twice while shaving; +I have stepped on my son's wild beasts in turning round, and I have the +prospect of a dozen duty calls, as my wife terms them, before me; yet I +am delighted. + +We sit down to the breakfast table, which has a more than usually festive +aspect. A faint aroma of truffles perfumes the air, every one is +smiling, and through the glass I see, startling sight! the doorkeeper, +with his own hands, wiping the handrail of the staircase. It is a +glorious day. + +Baby has ranged his elephants, lions, and giraffes round his plate, and +his mother, under pretext of a draught, breakfasts in her tippet. + +"Have you ordered the carriage, dear, for our visits?" I ask. + +"That cushion for Aunt Ursula will take up such a deal of room. It might +be put beside the coachman." + +"Poor aunt." + +"Papa, don't let us go to Aunt Ursula," said Baby; "she pricks so when +she kisses you." + +"Naughty boy . . . . Think of all we have to get into the carriage. +Leon's rocking-horse, Louise's muff, your father's slippers, Ernestine's +quilt, the bonbons, the work-box. I declare, aunt's cushion must go +under the coachman's feet." + +"Papa, why doesn't the giraffe eat cutlets?" + +"I really don't know, dear." + +"Neither do I, papa." + +An hour later we are ascending the staircase leading to Aunt Ursula's. +My wife counts the steps as she pulls herself up by the hand-rail, and I +carry the famous cushion, the bonbons, and my son, who has insisted on +bringing his giraffe with him. + +Aunt Ursula, who produces the same effect on him as the sight of a rod +would, is waiting us in her icy little drawing-room. Four square +armchairs, hidden beneath yellow covers, stand vacant behind four little +mats. A clock in the shape of a pyramid, surmounted on a sphere, ticks +under a glass case. + +A portrait on the wall, covered with fly-spots, shows a nymph with a +lyre, standing beside a waterfall. This nymph was Aunt Ursula. How she +has altered! + +"My dear aunt, we have come to wish you a Happy New Year." + +"To express our hopes that--" + +"Thank you, nephew, thank you, niece," and she points to two chairs. +"I am sensible of this step on your part; it proves to me that you have +not altogether forgotten the duties imposed upon you by family ties." + +"You are reckoning, my dear aunt, without the affection we feel for you, +and which of itself is enough . . . Baby, go and kiss your aunt." + +Baby whispers in my ear, "But, papa, I tell you she does prick." + +I place the bonbons on a side-table. + +"You can, nephew, dispense with offering me that little gift; you know +that sweetmeats disagree with me, and, if I were not aware of your +indifference as to the state of my health, I should see in your offering +a veiled sarcasm. But let that pass. Does your father still bear up +against his infirmities courageously?" + +"Thank you, yes." + +"I thought to please you, dear aunt," observes my wife, "by embroidering +for you this cushion, which I beg you to accept." + +"I thank you, child, but I can still hold myself sufficiently upright, +thank God, not to have any need of a cushion. The embroidery is +charming, it is an Oriental design. You might have made a better choice, +knowing that I like things much more simple. It is charming, however, +although this red next to the green here sets one's teeth on edge. Taste +in colors is, however, not given to every one. I have, in return, to +offer you my photograph, which that dear Abbe Miron insisted on my having +taken." + +"How kind you are, and how like you it is! Do you recognize your aunt, +Baby?" + +"Do not think yourself obliged to speak contrary to your opinion. This +photograph does not in any way resemble me, my eyes are much brighter. +I have also a packet of jujubes for your child. He seems to have grown." + +"Baby, go and kiss your aunt." + +"And then we shall go, mamma?" + +"You are very rude, my dear." + +"Let him speak out; at any rate, he is frank. But I see that your +husband is getting impatient, you have other . . . errands to fulfil; +I will not keep you. Besides, I am going to church to pray for those who +do not pray for themselves." + +From twelve duty calls, subtract one duty call, and eleven remain. Hum! +"Coachman, Rue St. Louis au Marais." + +"Papa, has Aunt Ursula needles in her chin?" + +Let us pass over the eleven duty calls, they are no more agreeable to +write of than to make. + +Toward seven o'clock, heaven be praised, the horses stop before my +father's, where dinner awaits us. Baby claps his hands, and smiles at +old Jeannette, who, at the sound of the wheels, has rushed to the door. +"Here they are," she exclaims, and she carries off Baby to the kitchen, +where my mother, with her sleeves turned up, is giving the finishing +touch to her traditional plum cake. + +My father, on his way to the cellar, lantern in hand, and escorted by his +old servant, Jean, who is carrying the basket, halts. "Why, children, +how late you are! Come to my arms, my dears; this is the day on which +one kisses in good earnest. Jean, hold my lantern a minute." And as my +old father clasps me to his breast, his hand seeks out mine and grasps +it, with a long clasp. Baby, who glides in between our legs, pulls our +coat-tails and holds up his little mouth for a kiss too. + +"But I am keeping you here in the anteroom and you are frozen; go into +the drawing-room, there are a good fire and good friends there." + +They have heard us, the door opens, and a number of arms are held out to +us. Amid handshakings, embracings, good wishes, and kisses, boxes are +opened, bonbons are showered forth, parcels are undone, mirth becomes +deafening, and good humor tumultuous. Baby standing amid his presents +resembles a drunken man surrounded by a treasure, and from time to time +gives a cry of joy on discovering some fresh toy. + +"The little man's fable," exclaims my father, swinging his lantern which +he has taken again from Jean. + +A deep silence ensues, and the poor child, whose debut in the +elocutionary art it is, suddenly loses countenance. He casts down his +eyes, blushes and takes refuge in the arms of his mother, who, stooping +down, whispers, "Come, darling, 'A lamb was quenching'; you know the wolf +and the lamb." + +"Yes, mamma, I know the little lamb that wanted to drink." And in a +contrite voice, his head bent down on his breast, he repeats with a deep +sigh, "'A little lamb was quenching his thirst in a clear stream."' + +We all, with ears on the alert and a smile on our lips, follow his +delightful little jargon. + +Uncle Bertrand, who is rather deaf, has made an ear trumpet of his hand +and drawn his chair up. "Ah! I can follow it," he says. "It is the fox +and the grapes." And as there is a murmur of "Hush," at this +interruption, he adds: "Yes, yes, he recites with intelligence, great +intelligence." + +Success restores confidence to my darling, who finishes his fable with a +burst of laughter. Joy is communicative, and we take our places at table +amid the liveliest mirth. + +"By the way," says my father, "where the deuce is my lantern. I have +forgotten all about the cellar. Jean, take your basket and let us go and +rummage behind the fagots." + +The soup is smoking, and my mother, after having glanced smilingly round +the table, plunges her ladle into the tureen. Give me the family dinner +table at which those we love are seated, at which we may risk resting our +elbows at dessert, and at which at thirty we once more taste the wine +offered at our baptism. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +LETTERS OF A YOUNG MOTHER TO HER FRIEND. + +The little caps are the ones I want, Marie. Be good enough to send me +the pattern of the braces, those of your own invention, you know. Thanks +for your coverlet, it is soft, flexible, warm, and charming, and Baby, +amid its white wool, looks like a rosebud hidden in the snow. I am +becoming poetical, am I not? But what would you have? My poor heart is +overflowing with joy. My son, do you understand that, dear, my own son? +When I heard the sharp cry of the little being whom my mother showed me +lying in her apron, it seemed to me that a burning thrill of love shot +through my veins. My old doctor's bald head was close to me, I caught +hold of it and kissed him thrice. + +"Calm yourself, my dear child," said he. + +"Doctor, be quiet, or I will kiss you again. Give me my baby, my love. +Are you quite sure it is a boy?" + +And in the adjoining drawing-room, where the whole family were waiting, I +could hear amid the sound of kisses, the delightful words, "It is a boy, +a fine boy." + +My poor husband, who for twelve hours had not left me, overcome with +fatigue and emotion, was crying and laughing in one corner of the room. + +"Come, nurse, swaddle him, quick now. No pins, confound it all, strings, +I will have strings. What? Give me the child, you don't understand +anything about it." + +And the good doctor in the twinkling of an eye had dressed my child. + +"He looks a Colonel, your boy. Put him into the cradle with . . . now +be calm, my dear patient . . . with a hot-water bottle to his feet. +Not too much fire, especially in the Colonel's room. Now, no more noise, +repose, and every one out of the way." + +And as through the opening of the door which was just ajar, Aunt Ursula +whispered, "Doctor, let me come in; just to press her hand, doctor." + +"Confound it! every one must be off; silence and quiet are absolutely +necessary." They all left. + +"Octave," continued the doctor, "come and kiss your wife now, and make an +end of it. Good little woman, she has been very brave . . . . +Octave, come and kiss your wife, and be quick about it if you don't want +me to kiss her myself. I will do what I say," he added, threatening to +make good his words. + +Octave, buried in his child's cradle, did not hear. + +"Good, now he is going to suffocate my Colonel for me." + +My husband came at length. He held out his hand which was quivering with +emotion, and I grasped it with all my might. If my heart at that moment +did not break from excess of feeling, it was because God no doubt knew +that I should still have need of it. + +You know, dear Marie, that before a child comes we love each other as +husband and wife, but we love each other on our own account, while +afterward we love each other on his, the dear love, who with his tiny +hand has rivetted the chain forever. God, therefore, allows the heart to +grow and swell. Mine was full; nevertheless, my baby came and took his +place in it. Yet nothing overflowed, and I still feel that there is room +for mother and yourself. You told me, and truly, that this would be a +new life, a life of deep love and delightful devotion. All my past +existence seems trivial and colorless to me, and I perceive that I am +beginning to live. I am as proud as a soldier who has been in battle. +Wife and mother, those words are our epaulettes. Grandmother is the +field-marshal's baton. + +How sweet I shall render the existence of my two loved ones! + +How I shall cherish them! I am wild, I weep, I should like to kiss you. +I am afraid I am too happy. + +My husband is really good. He holds the child with such pleasing +awkwardness, it costs him such efforts to lift this slight burden. When +he brings it to me, wrapped in blankets, he walks with slow and careful +steps. One would think that the ground was going to crumble away beneath +his feet. Then he places the little treasure in my bed, quite close to +me, on a large pillow. We deck Baby; we settle him comfortably, and if +after many attempts we get him to smile, it is an endless joy. Often my +husband and I remain in the presence of this tiny creature, our heads +resting on our hands. We silently follow the hesitating and charming +movements of his little rosy-nailed hand on the silk, and we find in this +so deep a charm that it needs a considerable counter-attraction to tear +us away. + +We have most amusing discussions on the shape of his forehead and the +color of his eyes, which always end in grand projects for his future, +very silly, no doubt, but so fascinating. + +Octave wants him to follow a diplomatic career. He says that he has the +eye of a statesman and that his gestures, though few, are full of +meaning. Poor, dear little ambassador, with only three hairs on your +head! But what dear hairs they are, those threads of gold curling at the +back of his neck, just above the rosy fold where the skin is so fine and +so fresh that kisses nestle there of themselves. + +The whole of this little body has a perfume which intoxicates me and +makes my heart leap. What, dear friend, are the invisible ties which +bind us to our children? Is it an atom of our own soul, a part of our +own life, which animates and vivifies them? There must be something of +the kind, for I can read amid the mists of his little mind. I divine his +wishes, I know when he is cold, I can tell when he is hungry. + +Do you know the most delightful moment? It is when after having taken +his evening meal and gorged himself with milk like a gluttonous little +kitten, he falls asleep with his rosy cheek resting on my arm. His limbs +gently relax, his head sinks down on my breast, his eyes close, and his +half-opened mouth continues to repeat the action of suckling. + +His warm, moist breath brushes the hand that is supporting him. Then I +wrap him up snugly in my turned-up skirt, hide his little feet under his +clothes and watch my darling. I have him there, all to myself, on my +knees. There is not a quiver of his being that escapes me or that does +not vibrate in myself. I feel at the bottom of my heart a mirror that +reflects them all. He is still part of me. Is it not my milk that +nourishes him, my voice that hushes him off to sleep, my hand that +dresses and caresses, encourages and supports him? The feeling that I am +all in all for him further adds a delicious charm of protection to the +delight of having brought him into the world. + +When I think that there are women who pass by such joys without turning +their heads. The fools! + +Yes, the present is delightful and I am drunk with happiness. There is +also the future, far away in the clouds. I often think of it, and I do +not know why I shudder at the approach of a storm. + +Madness! I shall love him so discreetly, I shall render the weight of my +affection so light for him, that why should he wish to separate from me? +Shall I not in time become his friend? Shall I not when a black down +shadows those rosy little lips, when the bird, feeling its wings grown, +seeks to leave the nest, shall I not be able to bring him back by +invisible ties to the arms in which he now is sleeping? Perhaps at that +wretched moment they call a man's youth you will forget me, my little +darling! Other hands than mine perhaps will brush the hair away from +your forehead at twenty. Alas! other lips, pressed burningly where mine +are now pressed, will wipe out with a kiss twenty years of caresses. +Yes, but when you return from this intoxicating and fatiguing journey, +tired and exhausted, you will soon take refuge in the arms that once +nursed you, you will rest your poor, aching head where it rests now, you +will ask me to wipe away your tears and to make you forget the bruises +received on the way, and I shall give you, weeping for joy, the kiss +which at once consoles and fills with hope. + +But I see that I am writing a whole volume, dear Marie. I will not +re-read it or I should never dare to send it to you. What would you +have? I am losing my head a little. I am not yet accustomed to all this +happiness. + Yours affectionately. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +FOUR YEARS LATER + +Yes, my dear, he is a man and a man for good and all. He has come back +from the country half as big again and as bold as a lion. He climbs on +to the chairs, stops the clocks and sticks his hands in his pockets like +a grown-up person. + +When I see in the morning in the anteroom my baby's little shoes standing +proudly beside the paternal boots, I experience, despite myself, a return +toward that past which is yet so near. Yesterday swaddling clothes, +today boots, tomorrow spurs. Ah! how the happy days fly by. Already +four years old. I can scarcely carry him, even supposing he allowed me +to, for his manly dignity is ticklish. He passes half his life armed for +war, his pistols, his guns, his whips and his swords are all over the +place. There is a healthy frankness about all his doings that charms me. + +Do you imagine from this that my demon no longer has any good in him? At +times he is an angel and freely returns the caresses I bestow upon him. +In the evening after dinner he gets down into my armchair, takes my head +in his hands and arranges my hair in his own way. His fresh little mouth +travels all over my face. He imprints big sounding kisses on the back of +my neck, which makes me shudder all over. We have endless talks +together. "Why's" come in showers, and all these "why's" require real +answers; for the intelligence of children is above all things logical. +I will only give one of his sayings as a proof. + +His grandmother is rather unwell, and every night he tacks on to his +prayer these simple words, "Please God make Granny well, because I love +her so." But for greater certainty he has added on his own account, "You +know, God, Granny who lives in the Rue Saint-Louis, on the first floor." +He says all this with an expression of simple confidence and such comic +seriousness, the little love. You understand, it is to spare God the +trouble of looking for the address. + +I leave you; I hear him cough. I do not know whether he has caught cold, +but I think he has been looking rather depressed since the morning. Do +not laugh at me, I am not otherwise uneasy. + Yours most affectionately. + + +Yesterday there was a consultation. On leaving the house my old doctor's +eyes were moist; he strove to hide it, but I saw a tear. My child must +be very ill then? The thought is dreadful, dear. They seek to reassure +me, but I tremble. + +The night has not brought any improvement. Still this fever. If you +could see the state of the pretty little body we used to admire so. +I will not think of what God may have in store for me. Ice has been +ordered to be put to his head. His hair had to be cut off. Poor fair +little curls that used to float in the wind as he ran after his hoop. +It is terrible. I have dreadful forebodings. + +My child, my poor child! He is so weak that not a word comes now from +his pale parched lips. His large eyes that still shine in the depths of +their sockets, smile at me from time to time, but this smile is so +gentle, so faint, that it resembles a farewell. A farewell! But what +would become of me? + +This morning, thinking he was asleep, I could not restrain a sob. His +lips opened, and he said, but in a whisper so low that I had to put my +ear close down to catch it: "You do love me then, mamma?" + +Do I love him? I should die. + + + NICE. + +They have brought me here and I feel no better for it. Every day my +weakness increases. I still spit blood. Besides, what do they seek to +cure me of? + Yours as ever. + + +If I should never return to Paris, you will find in my wardrobe his last +toys; the traces of his little fingers are still visible on them. To the +left is the branch of the blessed box that used to hang at his bedside. +Let your hands alone touch all this. Burn these dear relics, this poor +evidence of shattered happiness. I can still see . . . Sobs are +choking me. + +Farewell, dear friend. What would you? I built too high on too unstable +a soil. I loved one object too well. + Yours from my heart. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +OLD RECOLLECTIONS + +Cover yourselves with fine green leaves, tall trees casting your peaceful +shade. Steal through the branches, bright sunlight, and you, studious +promenaders, contemplative idlers, mammas in bright toilettes, gossiping +nurses, noisy children, and hungry babies, take possession of your +kingdom; these long walks belong to you. + +It is Sunday. Joy and festivity. The gaufre seller decks his shop and +lights his stove. The white cloth is spread on the table and piles of +golden cakes attract the customer. + +The woman who lets out chairs has put on her apron with its big pockets +for sous. The park keeper, my dear little children, has curled his +moustache, polished up his harmless sword and put on his best uniform. +See how bright and attractive the marionette theatre looks in the +sunshine, under its striped covering. + +Sunday requires all this in its honor. + +Unhappy are those to whom the tall trees of Luxembourg gardens do not +recall one of those recollections which cling to the heart like its first +perfume to a vase. + +I was a General, under those trees, a General with a plume like a +mourning coach-horse, and armed to the teeth. I held command from the +hut of tile newspaper vendor to the kiosk of the gaufre seller. No false +modesty, my authority extended to the basin of the fountain, although the +great white swans rather alarmed me. Ambushes behind the tree trunks, +advanced posts behind the nursemaids, surprises, fights with cold steel; +attacks by skirmishers, dust, encounters, carnage and no bloodshed. +After which our mammas wiped our foreheads, rearranged our dishevelled +hair, and tore us away from the battle, of which we dreamed all night. + +Now, as I pass through the garden with its army of children and nurses, +leaning on my stick with halting step, how I regret my General's cocked +hat, my paper plume, my wooden sword and my pistol. My pistol that would +snap caps and was the cause of my rapid promotion. + +Disport yourselves, little folks; gossip, plump nurses, as you scold your +soldiers. Embroider peaceably, young mothers, making from time to time a +little game of your neighbors among yourselves; and you, reflective +idlers, look at that charming picture-babies making a garden. + +Playing in the sand, a game as old as the world and always amusing. +Hillocks built up in a line with little bits of wood stuck into them, +represent gardens in the walks of which baby gravely places his little +uncertain feet. What would he not give, dear little man, to be able to +complete his work by creating a pond in his park, a pond, a gutter, three +drops of water? + +Further on the sand is damper, and in the mountain the little fingers +pierce a tunnel. A gigantic work which the boot of a passer-by will soon +destroy. What passer-by respects a baby's mountain? Hence the young +rascal avenges himself. See that gentleman in the brown frockcoat, who +is reading the 'Revue des Deux Mondes' on the bench; our workers have +piled up hillocks of sand and dust around him, the skirts of his coat +have already lost their color. + +But let this equipage noisily dashing along go by. Four horses, two bits +of string, and a fifth horse who is the driver. That is all, and yet one +fancies one's self in a postchaise. How many places has one not visited +by nightfall? + +There are drivers who prefer to be horses, there are horses who would +rather be drivers; first symptoms of ambition. + +And the solitary baby who slowly draws his omnibus round the gaufre +seller, eyeing his shop! An indefatigable consumer, but a poor +paymaster. + +Do you see down there under the plane-trees that group of nurses, a herd +of Burgundian milch kine, and at their feet, rolling on a carpet, all +those little rosy cheeked philosophers who only ask God for a little +sunshine, pure milk, and quiet, in order to be happy. Frequently an +accident disturbs the delightful calm. The Burgundian who mistrusted +matters darts forward. It is too late. + +"The course of a river is not to be checked," says Giboyer. + +Sometimes the disaster is still more serious, and one repairs it as one +can; but the philosopher who loves these disasters is indignant and +squalls, swearing to himself to begin again. + +Those little folk are delightful; we love children, but this affection +for the species in general becomes yet more sweet when it is no longer a +question of a baby, but of one's own baby. + +Bachelors must not read what follows; I wish to speak to the family +circle. Between those of a trade there is a better understanding. + +I am a father, my dear madame, and have been of course the rejoicing papa +of a matchless child. From beneath his cap there escaped a fair and +curly tress that was our delight, and when I touched his white neck with +my finger he broke into a laugh and showed me his little white pearls, as +he clasped my head in his two chubby arms. + +His first tooth was an event. We went into the light the better to see. +The grandparents looked through their glasses at the little white spot, +and I, with outstretched neck, demonstrated, explained and proved. And +all at once I ran off to the cellar to seek out in the right corner a +bottle of the best. + +My son's first tooth. We spoke of his career during dinner, and at +dessert grand-mamma gave us a song. + +After this tooth came others, and with them tears and pain, but then when +they were all there how proudly he bit into his slice of bread, how +vigorously he attacked his chop in order to eat "like papa." + +"Like papa," do you remember how these two words warm the heart, and how +many transgressions they cause to be forgiven. + +My great happiness,--is it yours too?--was to be present at my darling's +awakening. I knew the time. I would gently draw aside the curtains of +his cradle and watch him as I waited. + +I usually found him stretched diagonally, lost in the chaos of sheets and +blankets, his legs in the air, his arms crossed above his head. Often +his plump little hand still clutched the toy that had helped to send him +off to sleep, and through his parted lips came the regular murmur of his +soft breathing. The warmth of his sleep had given his cheeks the tint of +a well-ripened peach. His skin was warm, and the perspiration of the +night glittered on his forehead in little imperceptible pearls. + +Soon his hand would make a movement; his foot pushed away the blanket, +his whole body stirred, he rubbed an eye, stretched out his arms, and +then his look from under his scarcely raised eyelids would rest on me. + +He would smile at me, murmuring softly, so softly that I would hold my +breath to seize all the shades of his music. + +"Dood mornin', papa." + +"Good morning, my little man; have you slept well?" + +We held out our arms to each other and embraced like old friends. + +Then the talking would begin. He chatted as the lark would sing to the +rising sun. Endless stories. + +He would tell me his dreams, asking after each sentence for "his nice, +warm bread and milk, with plenty of sugar." And when his breakfast came +up, what an outburst of laughter, what joy as he drew himself up to reach +it; then his eye would glitter with a tear in the corner, and the chatter +begin again. + +At other times he would come and surprise me in bed. I would pretend to +be asleep, and he would pull my beard and shout in my ear. I feigned +great alarm and threatened to be avenged. From this arose fights among +the counterpanes, entrenchments behind the pillows. In sign of victory I +would tickle him, and then he shuddered, giving vent to the frank and +involuntary outburst of laughter of happy childhood. He buried his head +between his two shoulders like a tortoise withdrawing into his shell, and +threatened me with his plump rosy foot. The skin of his heel was so +delicate that a young girl's cheek would have been proud of it. How many +kisses I would cover those dear little feet with when I warmed his long +nightdress before the fire. + +I had been forbidden to undress him, because it had been found that I +entangled the knots instead of undoing them. + +All this was charming, but when it was necessary to act rigorously and +check the romping that was going too far, he would slowly drop his +eyelids, while with dilated nostrils and trembling lips he tried to keep +back the big tear glittering beneath his eyelid. + +What courage was not necessary in order to refrain from calming with a +kiss the storm on the point of bursting, from consoling the little +swollen heart, from drying the tear that was overflowing and about to +become a flood. + +A child's expression is then so touching, there is so much grief in a +warm tear slowly falling, in a little contracted face, a little heaving +breast. + +All this is long past. Yet years have gone by without effacing these +loved recollections; and now that my baby is thirty years old and has a +heavy moustache, when he holds out his large hand and says in his bass +voice, "Good morning, father," it still seems to me that an echo repeats +afar off the dear words of old, "Dood mornin', papa." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +THE LITTLE BOOTS + +In the morning when I left my room, I saw placed in line before the door +his boots and mine. His were little laced-up boots rather out of shape, +and dulled by the rough usage to which he subjects them. The sole of the +left boot was worn thin, and a little hole was threatening at the toe of +the right. The laces, worn and slack, hung to the right and left. +Swellings in the leather marked the places of his toes, and the +accustomed movements of his little foot had left their traces in the +shape of creases, slight or deep. + +Why have I remembered all this? I really do not know, but it seems to me +that I can still see the boots of the dear little one placed there on the +mat beside my own, two grains of sand by two paving stones, a tom tit +beside an elephant. They were his every-day boots, his playfellows, +those with which he ascended sand hills and explored puddles. They were +devoted to him, and shared his existence so closely that something of +himself was met with again in them. I should have recognized them among +a thousand; they had an especial physiognomy about them; it seemed to me +that an invisible tie attached them to him, and I could not look at their +undecided shape, their comic and charming grace, without recalling their +little master, and acknowledging to myself that they resembled him. + +Everything belonging to a baby becomes a bit babyish itself, and assumes +that expression of unstudied and simple grace peculiar to a child. + +Beside these laughing, gay, good-humored little boots, only asking leave +to run about the country, my own seemed monstrous, heavy, coarse, +ridiculous, with their heels. From their heavy and disabused air one +felt that for them life was a grave matter, its journeys long, and the +burden borne quite a serious one. + +The contrast was striking, and the lesson deep. I would softly approach +these little boots in order not to wake the little man who was still +asleep in the adjoining room; I felt them, I turned them over, I looked +at them on all sides, and I found a delightful smile rise to my lips. +Never did the old violet-scented glove that lay for so long in the inmost +recess of my drawer procure me so sweet an emotion. + +Paternal love is no trifle; it has its follies and weaknesses, it is +puerile and sublime, it can neither be analyzed nor explained, it is +simply felt, and I yielded myself to it with delight. + +Let the papa without weakness cast the first stone at me; the mammas will +avenge me. + +Remember that this little laced boot, with a hole in the toe, reminded me +of his plump little foot, and that a thousand recollections were +connected with that dear trifle. + +I recalled him, dear child, as when I cut his toe nails, wriggling about, +pulling at my beard, and laughing in spite of himself, for he was +ticklish. + +I recalled him as when of an evening in front of a good fire, I pulled +off his little socks. What a treat. + +I would say "one, two." And he, clad in his long nightgown, his hands +lost in the sleeves, would wait with glittering eyes, and ready to break +into a fit of laughter for the "three." + +At last after a thousand delays, a thousand little teasings that excited +his impatience and allowed me to snatch five or six kisses, I said +"three." + +The sock flew away. Then there was a wild joy; he would throw himself +back on my arm, waving his bare legs in the air. From his open mouth, in +which two rows of shining little pearls could be distinguished, welled +forth a burst of ringing laughter. + +His mother, who, however, laughed too, would say the next minute, +"Come, baby, come, my little angel, you will get cold . . . . But +leave off. . . . Will you have done, you little demon?" + +She wanted to scold, but she could not be serious at the sight of his +fair-haired head, and flushed, smiling, happy face, thrown back on my +knee. + +She would look at me, and say: + +"He is unbearable. Good gracious! what a child." + +But I understood that this meant: + +"Look how handsome, sturdy and healthy he is, our baby, our little man, +our son." + +And indeed he was adorable; at least I thought so. + +I had the wisdom--I can say it now that my hair is white--not to let one +of those happy moments pass without amply profiting by it, and really I +did well. Pity the fathers who do not know how to be papas as often as +possible, who do not know how to roll on the carpet, play at being a +horse, pretend to be the great wolf, undress their baby, imitate the +barking of the dog, and the roar of the lion, bite whole mouthfuls +without hurting, and hide behind armchairs so as to let themselves be +seen. + +Pity sincerely these unfortunates. It is not only pleasant child's play +that they neglect, but true pleasure, delightful enjoyment, the scraps of +that happiness which is greatly calumniated and accused of not existing +because we expect it to fall from heaven in a solid mass when it lies at +our feet in fine powder. Let us pick up the fragments, and not grumble +too much; every day brings us with its bread its ration of happiness. + +Let us walk slowly and look down on the ground, searching around us and +seeking in the corners; it is there that Providence has its hiding- +places. + +I have always laughed at those people who rush through life at full +speed, with dilated nostrils, uneasy eyes, and glance rivetted on the +horizon. It seems as though the present scorched their feet, and when +you say to them, "Stop a moment, alight, take a glass of this good old +wine, let us chat a little, laugh a little, kiss your child." + +"Impossible," they reply; "I am expected over there. There I shall +converse, there I shall drink delicious wine, there I shall give +expansion to paternal love, there I shall be happy!" + +And when they do get "there," breathless and tired out, and claim the +price of their fatigue, the present, laughing behind its spectacles, +says, "Monsieur, the bank is closed." + +The future promises, it is the present that pays, and one should have a +good understanding with the one that keeps the keys of the safe. + +Why fancy that you are a dupe of Providence? + +Do you think that Providence has the time to serve up to each of you +perfect happiness, already dressed on a golden plate, and to play music +during your repast into the bargain? Yet that is what a great many +people would like. + +We must be reasonable, tuck up our sleeves and look after our cooking +ourselves, and not insist that heaven should put itself out of the way to +skim our soup. + +I used to muse on all this of an evening when my baby was in my arms, and +his moist, regular breathing fanned my hand. I thought of the happy +moments he had already given me, and was grateful to him for them. + +"How easy it is," I said to myself, "to be happy, and what a singular +fancy that is of going as far as China in quest of amusement." + +My wife was of my opinion, and we would sit for hours by the fire talking +of what we felt. + +"You, do you see, dear? love otherwise than I do," she often said to me. +"Papas calculate more. Their love requires a return. They do not really +love their child till the day on which their self-esteem as its father is +flattered. There is something of ownership in it. You can analyze +paternal love, discover its causes, say 'I love my child because he is so +and so, or so and so.' With the mother such analysis is impossible, she +does not love her child because he is handsome or ugly, because he does +or does not resemble her, has or has not her tastes. She loves him +because she can not help it, it is a necessity. Maternal love is an +innate sentiment in woman. Paternal love is, in man, the result of +circumstances. In her love is an instinct, in him a calculation, of +which, it is true, he is unconscious, but, in short, it is the outcome of +several other feelings." + +"That is all very fine; go on," I said. "We have neither heart nor +bowels, we are fearful savages. What you say is monstrous." And I +stirred the logs furiously with the tongs. + +Yet my wife was right, I acknowledged to myself. When a child comes into +the world the affection of the father is not to be compared to that of +the mother. With her it is love already. It seems that she has known +him for a long time, her pretty darling. At his first cry it might be +said that she recognized him. She seems to say, "It is he." She takes +him without the slightest embarrassment, her movements are natural, she +shows no awkwardness, and in her two twining arms the baby finds a place +to fit him, and falls asleep contentedly in the nest created for him. It +would be thought that woman serves a mysterious apprenticeship to +maternity. Man, on the other hand, is greatly troubled by the birth of a +child. The first wail of the little creature stirs him, but in this +emotion there is more astonishment than love. His affection is not yet +born. His heart requires to reflect and to become accustomed to these +fondnesses so new to him. + +There is an apprenticeship to be served to the business of a father. +There is none to that of a mother. + +If the father is clumsy morally in his love for his firstborn, it must be +acknowledged that he is so physically in the manifestation of his +fondness. + +It is only tremblingly, and with contortions and efforts, that he lifts +the slight burden. He is afraid of smashing the youngster, who knows +this, and thence bawls with all the force of his lungs. He expands more +strength, poor man, in lifting up his child than he would in bursting a +door open. If he kisses him, his beard pricks him; if he touches him, +his big fingers cause him some disaster. He has the air of a bear +threading a needle. + +And yet it must be won, the affection of this poor father, who, at the +outset, meets nothing but misadventures; he must be captivated, captured, +made to have a taste for the business, and not be left too long to play +the part of a recruit. + +Nature has provided for it, and the father rises to the rank of corporal +the day the baby lisps his first syllables. + +It is very sweet, the first lisping utterance of a child, and admirably +chosen to move--the "pa-pa" the little creature first murmurs. It is +strange that the first word of a child should express precisely the +deepest and tenderest sentiment of all? + +Is it not touching to see that the little creature finds of himself the +word that is sure to touch him of whom he stands most in need; the word +that means, "I am yours, love me, give me a place in your heart, open +your arms to me; you see I do not know much as yet, I have only just +arrived, but, already, I think of you, I am one of the family, I shall +eat at your table, and bear your name, pa-pa, pa-pa." + +He has discovered at once the most delicate of flatteries, the sweetest +of caresses. He enters on life by a master stroke. + +Ah! the dear little love! "Pa-pa, pa-pa," I still hear his faint, +hesitating voice, I can still see his two coral lips open and close. We +were all in a circle around him, kneeling down to be on a level with him. +They kept saying to him, "Say it again, dear, say it again. Where is +papa?" And he, amused by all these people about him, stretched out his +arms, and turned his eyes toward me. + +I kissed him heartily, and felt that two big tears hindered me from +speaking. + +From that moment I was a papa in earnest. I was christened. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +BABIES AND PAPAS + +When the baby reaches three or four years of age, when his sex shows +itself in his actions, his tastes and his eyes, when he smashes his +wooden horses, cuts open his drums, blows trumpets, breaks the castors +off the furniture, and evinces a decided hostility to crockery; in a +word, when he is a man, it is then that the affection of a father for his +son becomes love. He feels himself invaded by a need of a special +fondness, of which the sweetest recollections of his past life can give +no idea. A deep sentiment envelopes his heart, the countless roots of +which sink into it in all directions. Defects or qualities penetrate and +feed on this sentiment. Thus, we find in paternal love all the +weaknesses and all the greatnesses of humanity. Vanity, abnegation, +pride, and disinterestedness are united together, and man in his entirety +appears in the papa. + +It is on the day which the child becomes a mirror in which you recognize +your features, that the heart is moved and awakens. Existence becomes +duplicated, you are no longer one, but one and a half; you feel your +importance increase, and, in the future of the little creature who +belongs to you, you reconstruct your own past; you resuscitate, and are +born again in him. You say to yourself: "I will spare him such and such +a vexation which I had to suffer, I will clear from his path such and +such a stone over which I stumbled, I will make him happy, and he shall +owe all to me; he shall be, thanks to me, full of talents and +attractions." You give him, in advance, all that you did not get +yourself, and in his future arrange laurels for a little crown for your +own brows. + +Human weakness, no doubt; but what matter, provided the sentiment that +gives birth to this weakness is the strongest and purest of all? What +matter if a limpid stream springs up between two paving stones? Are we +to be blamed for being generous out of egotism, and for devoting +ourselves to others for reasons of personal enjoyment? + +Thus, in the father, vanity is the leading string. Say to any father: +"Good heavens! how like you he is!" The poor man may hesitate at saying +yes, but I defy him not to smile. He will say, "Perhaps . . . . Do +you think so? . . . Well, perhaps so, side face." + +And do not you be mistaken; if he does so, it is that you may reply in +astonishment: "Why, the child is your very image." + +He is pleased, and that is easily explained; for is not this likeness a +visible tie between him and his work? Is it not his signature, his +trade-mark, his title-deed, and, as it were, the sanction of his rights? + +To this physical resemblance there soon succeeds a moral likeness, +charming in quite another way. You are moved to tears when you recognize +the first efforts of this little intelligence to grasp your ideas. +Without check or examination it accepts and feeds on them. By degrees +the child shares your tastes, your habits, your ways. He assumes a deep +voice to be like papa, asks for your braces, sighs before your boots, +and sits down with admiration on your hat. He protects his mamma when he +goes out with her, and scolds the dog, although he is very much afraid of +him; all to be like papa. Have you caught him at meals with his large +observant eyes fixed on you, studying your face with open mouth and spoon +in hand, and imitating his model with an expression of astonishment and +respect. Listen to his long gossips, wandering as his little brain; does +he not say: + +"When I am big like papa I shall have a moustache and a stick like him, +and I shall not be afraid in the dark, because it is silly to be afraid +in the dark when you are big, and I shall say 'damn it,' for I shall then +be grown up." + +"Baby, what did you say, sir?" + +"I said just as papa does." + +What would you? He is a faithful mirror. You are for him an ideal, a +model, the type of all that is great and strong, handsome and +intelligent. + +Often he makes mistakes, the little dear, but his error is all the more +delicious in its sincerity, and you feel all the more unworthy of such +frank admiration. You console yourself for your own imperfections in +reflecting that he is not conscious of them. + +The defects of children are almost always harrowed from their father; +they are the consequences of a too literal copy. Provide, then, against +them. Yes, no doubt, but I ask you what strength of mind is not needed +by a poor man to undeceive his baby, to destroy, with a word, his +innocent confidence, by saying to him: "My child, I am not perfect, +and I have faults to be avoided?" + +This species of devotion on the part of the baby for his father reminds +me of the charming remark of one of my little friends. Crossing the +road, the little fellow caught sight of a policeman. He examined him +with respect, and then turning to me, after a moment's reflection, said, +with an air of conviction: "Papa is stronger than all the policemen, +isn't he?" + +If I had answered "No," our intimacy would have been broken off short. + +Was it not charming? One can truly say, "Like baby, like papa." Our +life is the threshold of his. It is with our eyes that he has first +seen. + +Profit, young fathers, by the first moments of candor on the part of your +dear baby, seek to enter his heart when this little heart opens, and +establish yourself in it so thoroughly, that at the moment when the child +is able to judge you, he will love you too well to be severe or to cease +loving. Win his, affection, it is worth the trouble. + +To be loved all your life by a being you love--that is the problem to be +solved, and toward the solution of which all your efforts should be +directed. To make yourself loved, is to store up treasures of happiness +for the winter. Each year will take away a scrap of your life, contract +the circle of interests and pleasures in which you live; your mind by +degrees will lose its vigor, and ask for rest, and as you live less and +less by the mind, you will live more and more by the heart. The +affection of others which was only a pleasant whet will become a +necessary food, and whatever you may have been, statesmen or artists, +soldiers or bankers, when your heads are white, you will no longer be +anything but fathers. + +But filial love is not born all at once, nor is it necessary it should +be. The voice of nature is a voice rather poetical than truthful. The +affection of children is earned and deserved; it is a consequence, not a +cause, and gratitude is its commencement. At any cost, therefore, your +baby must be made grateful. Do not reckon that he will be grateful to +you for your solicitude, your dreams for his future, the cost of his +nursing, and the splendid dowry that you are amassing for him; such +gratitude would require from his little brain too complicated a +calculation, besides social ideas as yet unknown to him. He will not be +thankful to you for the extreme fondness you have for him; do not be +astonished at it, and do not cry out at his ingratitude. You must first +make him understand your affection; he must appreciate and judge it +before responding to it; he must know his notes before he can play tunes. + +The little man's gratitude will at first be nothing but a simple, +egotistical and natural calculation. If you have made him laugh, if you +have amused him, he will want you to begin again, he will hold out his +little arms to you, crying: "Do it again." And the recollection of the +pleasure you have given him becoming impressed upon his mind, he will +soon say to himself: "No one amuses me so well as papa; it is he who +tosses me into the air, plays at hide-and-seek with me and tells me +tales." So, by degrees, gratitude will be born in him, as thanks spring +to the lips of him who is made happy. + +Therefore, learn the art of amusing your child, imitate the crowing of +the cock, and gambol on the carpet, answer his thousand impossible +questions, which are the echo of his endless dreams, and let yourself be +pulled by the beard to imitate a horse. All this is kindness, but also +cleverness, and good King Henry IV did not belie his skilful policy by +walking on all fours on his carpet with his children on his back. + +In this way, no doubt, your paternal authority will lose something of its +austere prestige, but will gain the deep and lasting influence that +affection gives. Your baby will fear you less but will love you more. +Where is the harm. + +Do not be afraid of anything; become his comrade, in order to have the +right of remaining his friend. Hide your paternal superiority as the +commissary of police does his sash. Ask with kindness for that which you +might rightly insist upon having, and await everything from his heart if +you have known how to touch it. Carefully avoid such ugly words as +discipline, passive obedience and command; let his submission be gentle +to him, and his obedience resemble kindness. Renounce the stupid +pleasure of imposing your fancies upon him, and of giving orders to prove +your infallibility. + +Children have a keenness of judgment, and a delicacy of impression which +would not be imagined, unless one has studied them. Justice and equity +are easily born in their minds, for they possess, above all things, +positive logic. Profit by all this. There are unjust and harsh words +which remain graven on a child's heart, and which he remembers all his +life. Reflect that, in your baby, there is a man whose affection will +cheer your old age; therefore respect him so that he may respect you; and +be sure that there is not a single seed sown in this little heart which +will not sooner or later bear fruit. + +But there are, you will say, unmanageable children, rebels from the +cradle. Are you sure that the first word they heard in their lives has +not been the cause of their evil propensities? Where there has been +rebellion, there has been clumsy pressure; for I will not believe in +natural vice. Among evil instincts there is always a good one, of which +an arm can be made to combat the others. This requires, I know, extreme +kindness, perfect tact, and unlimited confidence, but the reward is +sweet. I think, therefore, in conclusion, that a father's first kiss, +his first look, his first caresses, have an immense influence on a +child's life. To love is a great deal. To know how to love is +everything. + +Even were one not a father, it is impossible to pass by the dear little +ones without feeling touched, and without loving them. Muddy and ragged, +or carefully decked out; running in the roadway and rolling in the dust, +or playing at skipping rope in the gardens of the Tuileries; dabbling +among the ducklings, or building hills of sand beside well-dressed +mammas--babies are charming. In both classes there is the same grace, +the same unembarrassed movements, the same comical seriousness, the same +carelessness as to the effect created, in short, the same charm; the +charm that is called childhood, which one can not understand without +loving--which one finds just the same throughout nature, from the opening +flower and the dawning day to the child entering upon life. + +A baby is not an imperfect being, an unfinished sketch--he is a man. +Watch him closely, follow every one of his movements; they will reveal to +you a logical sequence of ideas, a marvellous power of imagination, such +as will not again be found at any period of life. There is more real +poetry in the brain of these dear loves than in twenty epics. They are +surprised and unskilled, no doubt; but nothing equals the vigor of these +minds, unexperienced, fresh, simple, sensible of the slightest +impressions, which make their way through the midst of the unknown. + +What immense labor is gone through by them in a few months! To notice +noises, classify them, understand that some of these sounds are words, +and that these words are thoughts; to find out of themselves alone the +meaning of everything, and distinguish the true from the false, the real +from the imaginary; to correct, by observation, the errors of their too +ardent imagination; to unravel a chaos, and during this gigantic task to +render the tongue supple and strengthen the staggering little legs, in +short, to become a man. If ever there was a curious and touching sight +it is that of this little creature setting out upon the conquest of the +world. As yet he knows neither doubt nor fear, and opens his heart +fully. There is something of Don Quixote about a baby. He is as comic +as the Knight, but he has also a sublime side. + +Do not laugh too much at the hesitations, the countless gropings, the +preposterous follies of this virgin mind, which a butterfly lifts to the +clouds, to which grains of sand are mountains, which understands the +twittering of birds, ascribes thoughts to flowers, and souls to dolls, +which believes in far-off realms, where the trees are sugar, the fields +chocolate, and the rivers syrup, for which Punch and Mother Hubbard are +real and powerful individuals, a mind which peoples silence and vivifies +night. Do not laugh at his love; his life is a dream, and his mistakes +poetry. + +This touching poetry which you find in the infancy of man you also find +in the infancy of nations. It is the same. In both cases there is the +same necessity of idealization, the same tendency to personify the +unknown. And it may be said that between Punch and Jupiter, Mother +Hubbard and Venus, there is only a hair's breadth. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +HIS FIRST BREECHES + +The great desire in a child is to become a man. But the first symptom of +virility, the first serious step taken in life, is marked by the +assumption of breeches. + +This first breeching is an event that papa desires and mamma dreads. +It seems to the mother that it is the beginning of her being forsaken. +She looks with tearful eyes at the petticoat laid aside for ever, and +murmurs to herself, "Infancy is over then? My part will soon become a +small one. He will have fresh tastes, new wishes; he is no longer only +myself, his personality is asserting itself; he is some ones boy." + +The father, on the contrary, is delighted. He laughs in his moustache to +see the little arching calves peeping out beneath the trousers; he feels +the little body, the outline of which can be clearly made out under the +new garment, and says to himself; "How well he is put together, the +rascal. He will have broad shoulders and strong loins like myself. How +firmly his little feet tread the ground." Papa would like to see him in +jackboots; for a trifle he would buy him spurs. He begins to see himself +in this little one sprung from him; he looks at him in a fresh light, +and, for the first time, he finds a great charm in calling him "my boy." + +As to the baby, he is intoxicated, proud, triumphant, although somewhat +embarrassed as to his arms and legs, and, be it said, without any wish to +offend him, greatly resembling those little poodles we see freshly shaven +on the approach of summer. What greatly disturbed the poor little fellow +is past. How many men of position are there who do not experience +similar inconvenience. He knows very well that breeches, like nobility, +render certain things incumbent on their possessor, that he must now +assume new ways, new gestures, a new tone of voice; he begins to scan out +of the corner of his eye the movements of his papa, who is by no means +ill pleased at this: he clumsily essays a masculine gesture or two; and +this struggle between his past and his present gives him for some time +the most comical air in the world. His petticoats haunt him, and really +he is angry that it is so. + +Dear first pair of breeches! I love you, because you are a faithful +friend, and I encounter at every step in life you and your train of sweet +sensations. Are you not the living image of the latest illusion caressed +by our vanity? You, young officer, who still measure your moustaches in +the glass, and who have just assumed for the first time the epaulette and +the gold belt, how did you feel when you went downstairs and heard the +scabbard of your sabre go clink-clank on the steps, when with your cap on +one side and your arm akimbo you found yourself in the street, and, an +irresistible impulse urging you on, you gazed at your figure reflected in +the chemist's bottles? Will you dare to say that you did not halt before +those bottles? First pair of breeches, lieutenant. + +You will find them again, these breeches, when you are promoted to be +Captain and are decorated. And later on, when, an old veteran with a +gray moustache, you take a fair companion to rejuvenate you, you will +again put them on; but this time the dear creature will help you to wear +them. + +And the day when you will no longer have anything more to do with them, +alas! that day you will be very low, for one's whole life is wrapped up +in this precious garment. Existence is nothing more than putting on our +first pair of breeches, taking them off, putting them on again, and dying +with eyes fixed on them. + +Is it the truth that most of our joys have no more serious origin than +those of children? Are we then so simple? Ah! yes, my dear sir, we are +simple to this degree, that we do not think we are. We never quite get +rid of our swaddling clothes; do you see, there is always a little bit +sticking out? There is a baby in every one of us, or, rather, we are +only babies grown big. + +See the young barrister walking up and down the lobby of the courts. +He is freshly shaven: in the folds of his new gown he hides a pile of +documents, and on his head, in which a world of thought is stirring, is a +fine advocate's coif, which he bought yesterday, and which this morning +he coquettishly crushed in with a blow from his fist before putting it +on. This young fellow is happy; amid the general din he can distinguish +the echo of his own footsteps, and the ring of his bootheels sounds to +him like the great bell of Notre Dame. In a few minutes he will find an +excuse for descending the great staircase, and crossing the courtyard in +costume. You may be sure that he will not disrobe except to go to +dinner. What joy in these five yards of black stuff; what happiness in +this ugly bit of cloth stretched over stiff cardboard! + +First pair of breeches--I think I recognize you. + +And you, Madame, with what happiness do you renew each season the +enjoyment caused by new clothes? Do not say, I beg of you, that such +enjoyments are secondary ones, for their influence is positive upon your +nature and your character. Why, I ask you, did you find so much +captivating logic, so much persuasive eloquence, in the sermon of Father +Paul? Why did you weep on quitting the church, and embrace your husband +as soon as you got home? You know better than I do, Madame, that it was +because on that day you had put on for the first time that little yellow +bonnet, which is a gem, I acknowledge, and which makes you look twice as +pretty. These impressions can scarcely be explained, but they are +invincible. There may be a trifle of childishness in it all, you will +admit, but it is a childishness that can not be got rid of. + +As a proof of it, the other day, going to St. Thomas's to hear Father +Nicholas, who is one of our shining lights, you experienced totally +different sentiments; a general feeling of discontent and doubt and +nervous irritability at every sentence of the preacher. Your soul did +not soar heavenward with the same unreserved confidence; you left St. +Thomas's with your head hot and your feet cold; and you so far forgot +yourself as to say, as you got into your carriage, that Father Nicholas +was a Gallican devoid of eloquence. Your coachman heard it. And, +finally, on reaching home you thought your drawing-room too small and +your husband growing too fat. Why, I again ask you, this string of +vexatious impressions? If you remember rightly, dear Madame, you wore +for the first time the day before yesterday that horrible little violet +bonnet, which is such a disgusting failure. First pair of breeches, dear +Madame. + +Would you like a final example? Observe your husband. Yesterday he went +out in a bad temper--he had breakfasted badly--and lo! in the evening, +at a quarter to seven, he came home from the Chamber joyful and well- +pleased, a smile on his lips, and good-humor in his eye. He kissed you +on the forehead with a certain unconstraint, threw a number of pamphlets +and papers with an easy gesture on the sidetable, sat down to table, +found the soup delicious, and ate joyously. "What is the matter with my +husband?" you asked yourself . . . . I will explain. Your husband +spoke yesterday for the first time in the building, you know. He said-- +the sitting was a noisy one, the Left were threshing out some infernal +questions--he said, during the height of the uproar, and rapping with his +paper-knife on his desk: "But we can not hear!" And as these words were +received on all sides with universal approbation and cries of "Hear, +hear!" he gave his thoughts a more parliamentary expression by adding: +"The voice of the honorable gentleman who is speaking does not reach us." +It was not much certainly, and the amendment may have been carried all +the same, but after all it was a step; a triumph, to tell the truth, +since your husband has from day to day put off the delivery of his maiden +speech. Behold a happy deputy, a deputy who has just--put on his first +pair of breeches. + +What matter whether the reason be a serious or a futile one, if your +blood flows faster, if you feel happier, if you are proud of yourself? +To win a great victory or put on a new bonnet, what matters it if this +new bonnet gives you the same joy as a laurel crown? + +Therefore do not laugh too much at baby if his first pair of breeches +intoxicates him, if, when he wears them, he thinks his shadow longer and +the trees less high. He is beginning his career as a man, dear child, +nothing more. + +How many things have not people been proud of since the beginning of the +world? They were proud of their noses under Francis the First, of their +perukes under Louis XIV, and later on of their appetites and stoutness. +A man is proud of his wife, his idleness, his wit, his stupidity, the +beard on his chin, the cravat round his neck, the hump on his back. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +COUNTRY CHILDREN + +I love the baby that runs about under the trees of the Tuileries; I love +the pretty little fair-haired girls with nice white stockings and +unmanageable crinolines. I like to watch the tiny damsels decked out +like reliquaries, and already affecting coquettish and lackadaisical +ways. It seems to me that in each of them I can see thousands of +charming faults already peeping forth. But all these miniature men and +women, exchanging postage stamps and chattering of dress, have something +of the effect of adorable monstrosities on me. + +I like them as I like a bunch of grapes in February, or a dish of green +peas in December. + +In the babies' kingdom, my friend, my favorite is the country baby, +running about in the dust on the highway barefoot and ragged, and +searching for black birds' and chaffinches' nests on the outskirts of the +woods. I love his great black wondering eye, which watches you fixedly +from between two locks of un combed hair, his firm flesh bronzed by the +sun, his swarthy forehead, hidden by his hair, his smudged face and his +picturesque breeches kept from falling off by the paternal braces +fastened to a metal button, the gift of a gendarme. + +Ah! what fine breeches; not very long in the legs, but, then, what room +everywhere else! He could hide away entirely in this immense space which +allows a shirt-tail, escaping through a slit, to wave like a flag. These +breeches preserve a remembrance of all the garments of the family; here +is a piece of maternal petticoat, here a fragment of yellow waistcoat, +here a scrap of blue handkerchief; the whole sewn with a thread that +presents the twofold advantage of being seen from a distance, and of not +breaking. + +But under these patched clothes you can make out a sturdy little figure; +and, besides, what matters the clothes? Country babies are not +coquettish; and when the coach comes down the hill with jingling bells +and they rush after it, stumbling over their neighbors, tumbling with +them in the dust, and rolling into the ditches, what would all these dear +little gamins do in silk stockings? + +I love them thus because they are wild, taking alarm, and fleeing away at +your approach like the young rabbits you surprise in the morning playing +among the wild thyme. You must have recourse to a thousand subterfuges +in order to triumph over their alarm and gain their confidence. But if +at length, thanks to your prudence, you find yourself in their company, +at the outset play ceases, shouts and noise die away; the little group +remain motionless, scratching their heads, and all their uneasy eyes look +fixedly at you. This is the difficult moment. + +A sharp word, a stern gesture, may cause an eternal misunderstanding with +them, just as a kind remark, a smile, a caress will soon accomplish their +conquest. And this conquest is worth the trouble, believe me. + +One of my chief methods of winning them was as follows: I used to take my +watch out of my pocket and look at it attentively. Then I would see my +little people stretch their necks, open their eyes, and come a step +nearer; and it would often happen that the chickens, ducklings, and +geese, which were loitering close by in the grass, imitated their +comrades and drew near too. I then would put my watch to my ear and +smile like a man having a secret whispered to him. In presence of this +prodigy my youngsters could no longer restrain themselves, and would +exchange among themselves those keen, simple, timid, mocking looks, +which must have been seen to be understood. They advanced this time in +earnest, and if I offered to let the boldest listen, by holding out my +watch to him, he would draw back alarmed, although smiling, while the +band would break into an outburst of joy; the ducklings flapping their +wings, the white geese cackling, and the chickens going chk, chk. The +game was won. + +How many times have I not played this little farce, seated under a willow +on the banks of my little stream, which ripples over the white stones, +while the reeds bend tremblingly. The children would crowd round me to +hear the watch, and soon questions broke forth in chorus to an +accompaniment of laughter. They inspected my gaiters, rummaged in my +pockets and leant against my knees. The ducklings glided under my feet, +and the big geese tickled my back. + +How enjoyable it is not to alarm creatures that tremble at everything. +I would not move for fear of interrupting their joy, and was like a child +who is building a house of cards and who has got to the third story. But +I marked all these happy little faces standing out against the blue sky; +I watched the rays of the sun stealing into the tangles of their fair +hair, or spreading in a patch of gold on their little brown necks; I +followed their gestures full of awkwardness and grace; I sat down on the +grass to be the nearer to them; and if an unfortunate chicken came to +grief, between two daisies, I quickly stretched out my arm and replaced +it on its legs. + +I assure you that they were all grateful. If one loves these little +people at all, there is one thing that strikes you when you watch them +closely. Ducklings dabbling along the edge of the water or turning head +over heels in their feeding trough, young shoots thrusting forth their +tender little leaves above ground, little chickens running along before +their mother hen, or little men staggering among the grass-all these +little creatures resemble one another. They are the babies of the great +mother Nature; they have common laws, a common physiognomy; they have +something inexplicable about them which is at once comic and graceful, +awkward and tender, and which makes them loved at once; they are +relations, friends, comrades, under the same flag. This pink and white +flag, let us salute it as it passes, old graybeards that we are. It is +blessed, and is called childhood. + +All babies are round, yielding, weak, timid, and soft to the touch as a +handful of wadding. Protected by cushions of good rosy flesh or by a +coating of soft down, they go rolling, staggering, dragging along their +little unaccustomed feet, shaking in the air their plump hands or +featherless wing. See them stretched haphazard in the sun without +distinction of species, swelling themselves with milk or meal, and dare +to say that they are not alike. Who knows whether all these children of +nature have not a common point of departure, if they are not brothers of +the same origin? + +Since men with green spectacles have existed, they have amused themselves +with ticketing the creatures of this world. These latter are arranged, +divided into categories and classified, as though by a careful apothecary +who wants everything about him in order. It is no slight matter to stow +away each one in the drawer that suits him, and I have heard that certain +subjects still remain on the counter owing to their belonging to two +show-cases at once. + +And what proves to me, indeed, that these cases exist? What is there to +assure me that the whole world is not one family, the members of which +only differ by trifles which we are pleased to regard as everything? + +Have you fully established the fact of these drawers and compartments? +Have you seen the bars of these imaginary cages in which you imprison +kingdoms and species? Are there not infinite varieties which escape your +analysis, and are, as it were, the unknown links uniting all the +particles of the animated world? Why say, "For these eternity, for those +annihilation?" + +Why say, "This is the slave, that is the sovereign?" Strange boldness +for men who are ignorant of almost everything! + +Man, animal or plant, the creature vibrates, suffers or enjoys--exists +and encloses in itself the trace of the same mystery. What assures me +that this mystery, which is everywhere the same, is not the sign of a +similar relationship, is not the sign of a great law of which we are +ignorant? + +I am dreaming, you will say. And what does science do herself when she +reaches that supreme point at which magnifying glasses become obscure and +compasses powerless? It dreams, too; it supposes. Let us, too, suppose +that the tree is a man, rough skinned dreamy and silent, who loves, too, +after his fashion and vibrates to his very roots when some evening a warm +breeze, laden with the scents of the plain, blows through his green locks +and overwhelms him with kisses. No, I do not accept the hypothesis of a +world made for us. Childish pride, which would be ridiculous did not its +very simplicity lend it something poetic, alone inspires it. Man is but +one of the links of an immense chain, of the two ends of which we are +ignorant. [See Mark Twain's essay: 'What is Man.' D.W.] + +Is it not consoling to fancy that we are not an isolated power to which +the remainder of the world serves as a pedestal, that one is not a +licensed destroyer, a poor, fragile tyrant, whom arbitrary decrees +protect, but a necessary note of an infinite harmony? To fancy that the +law of life is the same in the immensity of space and irradiates worlds +as it irradiates cities and as it irradiates ant-hills. To fancy that +each vibration in ourselves is the echo of another vibration. To fancy a +sole principle, a primordial axiom, to think the universe envelops us as +a mother clasps her child in her two arms; and say to one's self, "I +belong to it and it to me; it would cease to be without me. I should not +exist without it." To see, in short, only the divine unity of laws, +which could not be nonexistent, where others have only seen a ruling +fancy or an individual caprice. + +It is a dream. Perhaps so, but I have often dreamed it when watching the +village children rolling on the fresh grass among the ducklings. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +AUTUMN + +Do you know the autumn, dear reader, autumn away in the country with its +squalls, its long gusts, its yellow leaves whirling in the distance, its +sodden paths, its fine sunsets, pale as an invalid's smile, its pools of +water in the roadway; do you know all these? If you have seen all these +they are certainly not indifferent to you. One either detests or else +loves them. + +I am of the number of those who love them, and I would give two summers +for a single autumn. I adore the big blazing fires; I like to take +refuge in the chimney corner with my dog between my wet gaiters. I like +to watch the tall flames licking the old ironwork and lighting up the +black depths. You hear the wind whistling in the stable, the great door +creak, the dog pull at his chain and howl, and, despite the noise of the +forest trees which are groaning and bending close by, you can make out +the lugubrious cawings of a flock of rooks struggling against the storm. +The rain beats against the little panes; and, stretching your legs toward +the fire, you think of those without. You think of the sailors, of the +old doctor driving his little cabriolet, the hood of which sways to and +fro as the wheels sink into the ruts, and Cocotte neighs in the teeth of +the wind. You think of the two gendarmes, with the rain streaming from +their cocked hats; you see them, chilled and soaked, making their way +along the path among the vineyards, bent almost double in the saddle, +their horses almost covered with their long blue cloaks. You think of +the belated sportsman hastening across the heath, pursued by the wind +like a criminal by justice, and whistling to his dog, poor beast, who is +splashing through the marshland. Unfortunate doctor, unfortunate +gendarmes, unfortunate sportsman! + +And all at once the door opens and Baby rushes in exclaiming: "Papa, +dinner is ready." Poor doctor! poor gendarmes! + +"What is there for dinner?" + +The cloth was as white as snow in December, the plate glittered in the +lamplight, the steam from the soup rose up under the lamp-shade, veiling +the flame and spreading an appetizing smell of cabbage. Poor doctor! +poor gendarmes! + +The doors were well closed, the curtains carefully drawn. Baby hoisted +himself on to his tall chair and stretched out his neck for his napkin to +be tied round it, exclaiming at the same time with his hands in the air: +"Nice cabbage soup." And, smiling to myself, I said: "The youngster has +all my tastes." + +Mamma soon came, and cheerfully pulling off her tight gloves: "There, +sir, I think, is something that you are very fond of," she said to me. + +It was a pheasant day, and instinctively I turned round a little to catch +a glimpse on the sideboard of a dusty bottle of my old Chambertin. +Pheasant and Chambertin! Providence created them for one another and my +wife has never separated them. + +"Ah! my children, how comfortable you are here," said I, and every one +burst out laughing. Poor gendarmes! poor doctor! + +Yes, yes, I am very fond of the autumn, and my darling boy liked it as +well as I did, not only on account of the pleasure there is in gathering +round a fine large fire, but also on account of the squalls themselves, +the wind and the dead leaves. There is a charm in braving them. How +many times we have both gone out for a walk through the country despite +cold and threatening clouds. We were wrapped up and shod with thick +boots; I took his hand and we started off at haphazard. He was five +years old then and trotted along like a little man. Heavens! it is +five-and-twenty years ago. We went up the narrow lane strewn with damp +black leaves; the tall gray poplars stripped of their foliage allowed a +view of the horizon, and we could see in the distance, under a violet sky +streaked with cold and yellowish bands, the low thatched roofs and the +red chimneys from which issued little bluish clouds blown away by the +wind. Baby jumped for joy, holding with his hand his hat which +threatened to fly off, and looking at me with eyes glittering through +tears brought into them by the breeze. His cheeks were red with cold, +and quite at the tip of his nose hung ready to drop a small transparent +pearl. But he was happy, and we skirted the wet meadows overflowed by +the swollen river. No more reeds, no more water lilies, no more flowers +on the banks. Some cows, up to mid-leg in damp herbage, were grazing +quietly. + +At the bottom of a ditch, near a big willow trunk, two little girls were +huddled together under a big cloak wrapped about them. They were +watching their cows, their half bare feet in split wooden shoes and their +two little chilled faces under the large hood. From time to time large +puddles of water in which the pale sky was reflected barred the way, and +we remained for a moment beside these miniature lakes, rippling beneath +the north wind, to see the leaves float on them. They were the last. +We watched them detach themselves from the tops of the tall trees, whirl +through the air and settle in the puddles. I took my little boy in my +arms and we went through them as we could. At the boundaries of the +brown and stubble fields was an overturned plough or an abandoned harrow. +The stripped vines were level with the ground, and their damp and knotty +stakes were gathered in large piles. + +I remember that one day in one of these autumnal walks, as we gained the +top of the hill by a broken road which skirts the heath and leads to the +old bridge, the wind suddenly began to blow furiously. My darling, +overwhelmed by it, caught hold of my leg and sheltered himself in the +skirt of my coat. My dog, for his part, stiffening his four legs, with +his tail between the hind ones and his ears waving in the wind, looked up +at me too. I turned, the horizon was as gloomy as the interior of a +church. Huge black clouds were sweeping toward us, and the trees were +bending and groaning on every side under the torrents of rain driven +before the squall. I only had time to catch up my little man, who was +crying with fright, and to run and squeeze myself against a hedge which +was somewhat protected by the old willows. I opened my umbrella, +crouched down behind it, and, unbuttoning my big coat, stuffed Baby +inside. He clung closely to me. My dog placed himself between my legs, +and Baby, thus sheltered by his two friends, began to smile from the +depths of his hiding-place. I looked at him and said: + +"Well, little man, are you all right?" + +"Yes, dear papa." + +I felt his two arms clasp round my waist--I was much thinner than I am +now--and I saw that he was grateful to me for acting as a roof to him. +Through the opening he stretched out his little lips and I bent mine +down. + +"Is it still raining outside, papa?" + +"It will soon be over." + +"Already, I am so comfortable inside you." + +How all this stays in your heart. It is perhaps silly to relate these +little joys, but how sweet it is to recall them. + +We reached home as muddy as two water-dogs and we were well scolded. +But when evening had come and Baby was in bed and I went to kiss him and +tickle him a little, as was our custom, he put his two little arms round +my neck and whispered: "When it rains we will go again, eh?" + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +HE WOULD HAVE BEEN FORTY NOW + +When you have seen your child born, have watched his first steps in life, +have noted him smile and weep, have heard him call you papa as he +stretches out his little arms to you, you think that you have become +acquainted with all the joys of paternity, and, as though satiated with +these daily joys that are under your hand, you already begin to picture +those of the morrow. You rush ahead, and explore the future; you are +impatient, and gulp down present happiness in long draughts, instead of +tasting it drop by drop. But Baby's illness suffices to restore you to +reason. + +To realize the strength of the ties that bind you to him, it is necessary +to have feared to see them broken; to know that a river is deep, you must +have been on the point of drowning in it. + +Recall the morning when, on drawing aside the curtain of his bed, you saw +on the pillow his little face, pale and thin. His sunken eyes, +surrounded by a bluish circle, were half closed. You met his glance, +which seemed to come through a veil; he saw you, without smiling at you. +You said, "Good morning," and he did not answer. His face only expressed +dejection and weakness, it was no longer that of your child. He gave a +kind of sigh, and his heavy eyelids drooped. You took his hands, +elongated, transparent, and with colorless nails; they were warm and +moist. You kissed them, those poor little hands, but there was no +responsive thrill to the contact of your lips. Then you turned round, +and saw your wife weeping behind you. It was at that moment when you +felt yourself shudder from head to foot, and that the idea of a possible +woe seized on you, never more to leave you. Every moment you kept going +back to the bed and raising the curtains again, hoping perhaps that you +had not seen aright, or that a miracle had taken place; but you withdrew +quickly, with a lump in your throat. And yet you strove to smile, to +make him smile himself; you sought to arouse in him the wish for +something, but in vain; he remained motionless, exhausted, not even +turning round, indifferent to all you said, to everything, even yourself. + +And what is all that is needed to strike down this little creature, to +reduce him to this pitch? Only a few hours. What, is that all that is +needed to put an end to him? Five minutes. Perhaps. + +You know that life hangs on a thread in this frail body, so little fitted +to suffer. You feel that life is only a breath, and say to yourself: +"Suppose this one is his last." A little while back he was complaining. +Already he does so no longer. It seems as though someone is clasping +him, bearing him away, tearing him from your arms. Then you draw near +him, and clasp him to you almost involuntarily, as though to give him +back some of your own life. His bed is damp with fever sweats, his lips +are losing their color. The nostrils of his little nose, grown sharp and +dry, rise and fall. His mouth remains wide open. It is that little rosy +mouth which used to laugh so joyfully, those are the two lips that used +to press themselves to yours, and . . . all the joys, the bursts of +laughter, the follies, the endless chatter, all the bygone happiness, +flock to your recollection at the sound of that gasping, breathing, while +big hot tears fall slowly from your eyes. Poor wee man. Your hand seeks +his little legs, and you dare not touch his chest, which you have kissed +so often, for fear of encountering that ghastly leanness which you +foresee, but the contact of which would make you break out in sobs. +And then, at a certain moment, while the sunlight was flooding the room, +you heard a deeper moan, resembling a cry. You darted forward; his face +was contracted, and he looked toward you with eyes that no longer saw. +And then all was calm, silent and motionless, while his hollow cheeks +became yellow and transparent as the amber of his necklaces. + +The recollection of that moment lasts for a lifetime in the hearts of +those who have loved; and even in old age, when time has softened your +grief, when other joys and other sorrows have filled your days, his dying +bed still appears to you when sitting of an evening beside the fire. You +see amid the sparkling flames the room of the lost child, the table with +the drinks, the bottles, the arsenal of illness, the little garments, +carefully folded, that waited for him so long, his toys abandoned in a +corner. You even see the marks of his little fingers on the wall paper, +and the zigzags he made with his pencil on the door; you see the corner +scribbled over with lines and dates, in which he was measured every +month, you see him playing, running, rushing up in a perspiration to +throw himself into your arms, and, at the same time, you also see him +fixing his glazing eyes on you, or motionless and cold under a white +sheet, wet with holy water. + +Does not this recollection recur to you sometimes, Grandma, and do not +you still shed a big tear as you say to yourself: "He would have been +forty now?" Do we not know, dear old lady, whose heart still bleeds, +that at the bottom of your wardrobe, behind your jewels, beside packets +of yellow letters, the handwriting of which we will not guess at, there +is a little museum of sacred relics--the last shoes in which he played +about on the gravel the day he complained of being cold, the remains of +some broken toys, a dried sprig of box, a little cap, his last, in a +triple wrapper, and a thousand trifles that are a world to you, poor +woman, that are the fragments of your broken heart? + +The ties that unite children to parents are unloosed. Those which unite +parents to children are broken. In one case, it is the past that is +wiped out; in the other, the future that is rent away. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +CONVALESCENCE + +But, my patient reader, forget what have just said. Baby does not want +to leave you, he does not want to die, poor little thing, and if you want +a proof of it, watch him very closely; there, he smiles. + +A very faint smile like those rays of sunlight that steal between two +clouds at the close of a wet winter. You rather guess at than see this +smile, but it is enough to warm your heart. The cloud begins to +disperse, he sees you, he hears you, he knows that papa is there, your +child is restored to you. His glance is already clearer. Call him +softly. He wants to turn, but he can not yet, and for his sole answer +his little hand, which is beginning to come to life again, moves and +crumples the sheet. Just wait a little, poor impatient father, and +tomorrow, on his awakening, he will say "Papa." You will see what good +it will do you, this "Papa," faint as a mere breath, this first scarcely +intelligible sign of a return to life. It will seem to you that your +child has been born again a second time. + +He will still suffer, he will have further crises, the storm does not +become a calm all at once, but he will be able now to rest his head on +your shoulder, nestle in your arms among the blankets; he will be able to +complain, to ask help and relief of you with eye and voice; you will, in +short, be reunited, and you will be conscious that he suffers less by +suffering on your knees. You will hold his hand in yours, and if you +seek to go away he will look at you and grasp your finger. How many +things are expressed in this grasp. Dear sir, have you experienced it? + +"Papa, do stay with me, you help to make me better; when I am alone I am +afraid of the pain. Hold me tightly to you, and I shall not suffer so +much." + +The more your protection is necessary to another the more you enjoy +granting it. What is it then when this other is a second self, dearer +than the first. With convalescence comes another childhood, so to speak. +Fresh astonishments, fresh joys, fresh desires come one by one as health +is restored. But what is most touching and delightful, is that delicate +coaxing by the child who still suffers and clings to you, that +abandonment of himself to you, that extreme weakness that gives him +wholly over to you. At no period of his life has he so enjoyed your +presence, has he taken refuge so willingly in your dressing-gown, has he +listened more attentively to your stories and smiled more intelligently +at your merriment. Is it true, as it seems to you, that he has never +been more charming? Or is it simply that threatened danger has caused +you to set a higher value on his caresses, and that you count over your +treasures with all the more delight because you have been all but ruined? + +But the little man is up again. Beat drums; sound trumpets; come out of +your hiding-places, broken horses; stream in, bright sun; a song from you +little birds. The little king comes to life again--long live the king! +And you, your majesty, come and kiss your father. + +What is singular is that this fearful crisis you have gone through +becomes in some way sweet to you; you incessantly recur to it, you speak +of it, you speak of it and cherish it in your mind; and, like the +companions of AEneas, you seek by the recollection of past dangers to +increase the present joy. + +"Do you remember," you say, "the day when he was so ill? Do you remember +his dim eyes, his poor; thin, little arm, and his pale lips? And that +morning the doctor went away after clasping our hands?" + +It is only Baby who does not remember anything. He only feels an +overpowering wish to restore his strength, fill out his cheeks and +recover his calves. + +"Papa, are we going to have dinner soon, eh, papa?" + +"Yes, it is getting dusk, wait a little." + +"But, papa, suppose we don't wait?" + +"In twenty minutes, you little glutton." + +"Twenty, is twenty a great many? If you eat twenty cutlets would it make +you ill? But with potatoes, and jam, and soup, and--is it still twenty +minutes?" + +Then again: "Papa, when there is beef with sauce," he has his mouth full +of it, "red tomato sauce." + +"Yes, dear, well?" + +"Well, a bullock is much bigger than what is on the dish; why don't they +bring the rest of the bullock? I could eat it all and then some bread +and then some haricots, and then--" + +He is insatiable when he has his napkin under his chin, and it is a +happiness to see the pleasure he feels in working his jaws. His little +eyes glisten, his cheeks grow red; what he puts away into his little +stomach it is impossible to say, and so busy is he that he has scarcely +time to laugh between two mouthfuls. Toward dessert his ardor slackens, +his look becomes more and more languid, his fingers relax and his eyes +close from time to time. + +"Mamma, I should like to go to bed," he says, rubbing his eyes. Baby is +coming round. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +FAMILY TIES + +The exhilaration of success and the fever of life's struggle take a man +away from his family, or cause him to live amid it as a stranger, and +soon he no longer finds any attractions in the things which charmed him +at the outset. But let ill luck come, let the cold wind blow rather +strongly, and he falls back upon himself, he seeks near him something to +support him in his weakness, a sentiment to replace his vanished dream, +and he bends toward his child, he takes his wife's hand and presses it. +He seems to invite these two to share his burden. Seeing tears in the +eyes of those he loves, his own seem diminished to that extent. It would +seem that moral suffering has the same effect as physical pain. The +drowning wretch clutches at straws; in the same way, the man whose heart +is breaking clasps his wife and children to him. He asks in turn for +help, protection, and comfort, and it is a touching thing to see the +strong shelter himself in the arms of the weak and recover courage in +their kiss. Children have the instinct of all this; and the liveliest +emotion they are capable of feeling is that which they experience on +seeing their father weep. + +Recall, dear reader, your most remote recollections, seek in that past +which seems to you all the clearer the farther you are removed from it. +Have you ever seen your father come home and sit down by the fire with a +tear in his eye? Then you dared not draw near him at first, so deeply +did you feel his grief. How unhappy he must be for his eyes to be wet. +Then you felt that a tie attached you to this poor man, that his +misfortune struck you too, that a part of it was yours, and that you were +smitten because your father was. And no one understands better than the +child this joint responsibility of the family to which he owes +everything. You have felt all this; your heart has swollen as you stood +silent in the corner, and sobs have broken forth as, without knowing why, +you have held out your arms toward him. He has turned, he has understood +all, he has not been able to restrain his grief any further, and you have +remained clasped in one another's arms, father, mother, and child, +without saying anything, but gazing at and understanding one another. +Did you, however, know the cause of the poor man's grief? + +Not at all. + +This is why filial love and paternal love have been poetized, why the +family is styled holy. It is because one finds therein the very source +of that need of loving, helping and sustaining one another, which from +time to time spreads over the whole of society, but in the shape of a +weakened echo. It is only from time to time in history that we see a +whole nation gather together, retire within itself and experience the +same thrill. + +A frightful convulsion is needed to make a million men hold out their +hands to one another and understand one another at a glance; it needs a +superhuman effort for the family to become the nation, and for the +boundaries of the hearth to extend to the frontiers. + +A complaint, a pang, a tear, is enough to make a man, a woman, and a +child, blend their hearts together and feel that they are but one. + +Laugh at marriage; the task is easy. All human contracts are tainted +with error, and an error is always smiled at by those who are not the +victims of it. There are husbands, it is certain; and when we see a man +tumble down, even if he knocks his brains out, our first impulse it to +burst out laughing. Hence the great and eternal mirth that greets +Sganarelle. + +But search to the bottom and behold that beneath all these trifles, +beneath all this dust of little exploded vanities, ridiculous mistakes +and comical passions, is hidden the very pivot of society. Verify that +in this all is for the best, since this family sentiment, which is the +basis of society, is also its consolation and joy. + +The honor of our flag, the love of country, and all that urges a man to +devote himself to something or some one not himself, are derived from +this sentiment, and in it, you may assert, is to be found the source +whence flow the great streams at which the human heart quenches its +thirst. + +Egotism for three, you say. What matter, if this egotism engenders +devotion? + +Will you reproach the butterfly with having been a caterpillar? + +Do not accuse me in all this of exaggeration, or of poetic exaltation. + +Yes, family life is very often calm and commonplace, the stock-pot that +figures on its escutcheon has not been put there without reason, I admit. +To the husband who should come and say to me: "Sir, for two days running +I have fallen asleep by the fireside," I should reply: "You are too lazy, +but after all I understand you." + +I also understand that Baby's trumpet is noisy, that articles of +jewellery are horribly dear, that lace flounces and sable trimmings are +equally so, that balls are wearisome, that Madame has her vapors, her +follies, exigencies; I understand, in short, that a man whose career is +prosperous looks upon his wife and child as two stumbling blocks. + +But I am waiting for the happy man, for the moment when his forehead will +wrinkle, when disappointment will descend upon his head like a leaden +skull-cap, and when picking up the two blocks he has cursed he will make +two crutches of them. + +I admit that Alexander the Great, Napoleon the First, and all the demi- +gods of humanity, have only felt at rare intervals the charm of being +fathers and husbands; but we other poor little men, who are less +occupied, must be one or the other. + +I do not believe in the happy old bachelor; I do not believe in the +happiness of all those who, from stupidity or calculation, have withdrawn +themselves from the best of social laws. A great deal has been said on +this subject, and I do not wish to add to the voluminous documents in +this lawsuit. Acknowledge frankly all you who have heard the cry of your +new-born child and felt your heart tingle like a glass on the point of +breaking, unless you are idiots, acknowledge that you said to yourselves: +"I am in the right. Here, and here alone, lies man's part. I am +entering on a path, beaten and worn, but straight; I shall cross the +weary downs, but each step will bring me nearer the village spire. I am +not wandering through life, I am marching on, I stir with my feet the +dust in which my father has planted his. My child, on the same road, +will find the traces of my footsteps, and, perhaps, on seeing that I have +not faltered, will say: 'Let me act like my old father and not lose +myself in the ploughed land.'" + +If the word holy has still a meaning, despite the uses it has been put +to, I do not see that a better use can be made of it than by placing it +beside the word family. + +They speak of progress, justice, general well-being, infallible policies, +patriotism, devotion. I am for all these good things, but this bright +horizon is summed up in these three words: "Love your neighbor," and this +is precisely, in my opinion, the thing they forget to teach. + +To love your neighbor is as simple as possible, but the mischief is that +you do not meet with this very natural feeling. There are people who +will show you the seed in the hollow of their hand, but even those who +deal in this precious grain are the last to show you it in leaf. + +Well, my dear reader, this little plant which should spring up like the +poppies in the wheat, this plant which has never been seen growing higher +than watercress, but which should overtop the oaks, this undiscoverable +plant, I know where it grows. + +It grows beside the domestic hearth, between the shovel and tongs; it is +there that it perpetuates itself, and if it still exists, it is to the +family that we owe it. I love pretty nearly all the philanthropists and +saviours of mankind; but I only believe in those who have learned to love +others by embracing their own children. + +Mankind can not be remodelled to satisfy the wants of humanitarian +theories; man is egotistical, and he loves, above all, those who are +about him. This is the natural human sentiment, and it is this which +must be enlarged, extended and cultivated. In a word, it is in family +love that is comprised love of country and consequently of humanity. +It is from fathers that citizens are made. + +Man has not twenty prime movers, but only one in his heart; do not argue +but profit by it. + +Affection is catching. Love between three--father, mother, and child-- +when it is strong, soon requires space; it pushes back the walls of the +house, and by degrees invites the neighbors. The important thing, then, +is to give birth to this love between three; for it is madness, I am +afraid, to thrust the whole human species all at once on a man's heart. +Such large mouthfuls are not to be swallowed at a gulp, nor without +preparation. + +This is why I have always thought that with the numerous sous given for +the redemption of the little Chinese, we might in France cause the fire +to sparkle on hearths where it sparkles no longer, make many eyes grow +brighter round a tureen of smoking soup, warm chilled mothers, bring +smiles to the pinched faces of children, and give pleasure and happiness +to poor discouraged ones on their return home. + +What a number of hearty kisses you might have brought about with all +these sous, and, in consequence, what a sprinkling with the watering-pot +for the little plant you wot of. + +"But then what is to become of the redemption of the little Chinese?" + +We will think of this later; we must first know how to love our own +before we are able to love those of others. + +No doubt, this is brutal and egotistical, but you can not alter it; it is +out of small faults that you build up great virtues. And, after all, do +not grumble, this very vanity is the foundation stone of that great +monument--at present still propped up by scaffolding--which is called +Society. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Affection is catching +All babies are round, yielding, weak, timid, and soft +And I shall say 'damn it,' for I shall then be grown up +He Would Have Been Forty Now +How many things have not people been proud of +I am not wandering through life, I am marching on +I do not accept the hypothesis of a world made for us +I would give two summers for a single autumn +In his future arrange laurels for a little crown for your own +It (science) dreams, too; it supposes +Learned to love others by embracing their own children +Life is not so sweet for us to risk ourselves in it singlehanded +Man is but one of the links of an immense chain +Recollection of past dangers to increase the present joy +Respect him so that he may respect you +Shelter himself in the arms of the weak and recover courage +The future promises, it is the present that pays +The future that is rent away +The recollection of that moment lasts for a lifetime +Their love requires a return +Ties that unite children to parents are unloosed +Ties which unite parents to children are broken +To love is a great deal--To know how to love is everything +We are simple to this degree, that we do not think we are +When time has softened your grief + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Monsieur, Madame, and Bebe, v3 +by Gustave Droz + diff --git a/3925.zip b/3925.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e2c99cc --- /dev/null +++ b/3925.zip diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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