The story, which was repeated to me on the occasion of each subsequent birth, made a rather painful impression upon me. I did not like the idea of the baby cockchafer. Nor did I like my little sister Eliane into whom the cockchafer had grown. _Maman_ remained in bed for a long time and paid no more attention to me, and I was deeply jealous. I was no longer allowed to go in and out of her room as had been my wont, and when my father took me in his arms and carried me gently in to see my little sister, and bent with me over the small pink cradle so that I might give her a kiss, I felt instead a violent wish to bite her. One day I was authorized to rock Eliane while my father and mother talked together. I was much pleased by this mark of confidence, and I slipped into the cradle, unnoticed, my horrible doll Josephine, all untidy and disheveled, not to say dirty, so that she, too, might have a rocking. She lay cheek to cheek with Eliane, already a young lady ten days old, and the contact of this cold, clammy cheek woke my little sister, who began to cry so loudly that, in order to quiet her, I rocked with might and main, and unless papa had rushed to the rescue it is probable that Eliane and Josephine would have been tossed out upon the floor. Jeannie was at once summoned to take me away in disgrace, and in _bonne maman's_ room I was consoled by two _dragées_, one white, I remember, and one pink. "You love your little sister, don't you, my darling?" asked _bonne maman_, to whom Jeannie related the affair of the rocking. "No," I replied, the pink _dragée_ in my mouth. "Why not, dear?" "She is horrid," I said. And as _bonne maman_, much distressed, continued to question and expostulate, I burst, despite the _dragées_, into a torrent of tears and cried: "She is bad! She is ugly! She cries!"