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