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.