in reference to anything of hers she says: "Take care!"

She cunningly lets him have your things that she may be left in peace.
Her bad faith as a good mother seeks shelter behind her child, your
son is her accomplice. Both are leagued against you like Robert
Macaire and Bertrand against the subscribers to their joint stock
company. The boy is an axe with which foraging excursions are
performed in your domains. He goes either boldly or slyly to maraud in
your wardrobe: he reappears caparisoned in the drawers you laid aside
that morning, and brings to the light of day many articles condemned
to solitary confinement. He brings the elegant Madame Fischtaminel, a
friend whose good graces you cultivate, your girdle for checking
corpulency, bits of cosmetic for dyeing your moustache, old waistcoats
discolored at the arm-holes, stockings slightly soiled at the heels
and somewhat yellow at the toes. It is quite impossible to remark that
these stains are caused by the leather!

Your wife looks at your friend and laughs; you dare not be angry, so
you laugh too, but what a laugh! The unfortunate all know that laugh.

Your son, moreover, gives you a cold sweat, if your razors happen to
be out of their place. If you are angry, the little rebel laughs and
shows his two rows of pearls: if you scold him, he cries. His mother
rushes in! And what a mother she is! A mother who will detest you if
you don't give him the razor! With women there is no middle ground; a
man is either a monster or a model.

At certain times you perfectly understand Herod and his famous decrees
relative to the Massacre of the Innocents, which have only been
surpassed by those of the good Charles X!