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