‘Then I have the background, the two arms of the rivet with their quays, the Cité, rising up triumphantly in the centre, and standing out against the sky. Ah! that background, what a marvel! People see it every day, pass before it without stopping; but it takes hold of one all the same; one’s admiration accumulates, and one fine afternoon it bursts forth. Nothing in the world can be grander; it is Paris herself, glorious in the sunlight. Ah! what a fool I was not to think of it before! How many times I have looked at it without seeing! However, I stumbled on it after that ramble along the quays! And, do you remember, there’s a dash of shadow on that side; while here the sunrays fall quite straight. The towers are yonder; the spire of the Sainte-Chapelle tapers upward, as slim as a needle pointing to the sky. But no, it’s more to the right. Wait, I’ll show you.’ He began again, never wearying, but constantly retouching the sketch, and adding innumerable little characteristic details which his painter’s eye had noticed; here the red signboard of a distant shop vibrated in the light; closer by was a greenish bit of the Seine, on whose surface large patches of oil seemed to be floating; and then there was the delicate tone of a tree, the gamut of greys supplied by the house frontages, and the luminous cast of the sky. She complaisantly approved of all he said and tried to look delighted. But Jacques once again forgot what he had been told. After long remaining silent before his book, absorbed in the contemplation of a wood-cut depicting a black cat, he began to hum some words of his own composition: ‘Oh, you pretty cat; oh, you ugly cat; oh, you pretty, ugly cat,’ and so on, _ad infinitum_, ever in the same lugubrious manner. Claude, who was made fidgety by the buzzing noise, did not at first understand what was upsetting him. But after a time the child’s harassing phrase fell clearly upon his ear. ‘Haven’t you done worrying us with your cat?’ he shouted furiously. ‘Hold your tongue, Jacques, when your father is talking!’ repeated Christine. Upon my word, I do believe he is becoming an idiot. Just look at his head, if it isn’t like an idiot’s. It’s dreadful. Just say; what do you mean by your pretty and ugly cat?’ The little fellow, turning pale and wagging his big head, looked stupid, and replied: ‘Don’t know.’ Then, as his father and mother gazed at each other with a discouraged air, he rested his cheek on the open picture-book, and remained like that, neither stirring nor speaking, but with his eyes wide open.