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!