It was a beautiful drive, the air was sharp, but the sun shone brightly. And we had, what was better still, love and good spirits for travelling companions; so that we made the journey merrily enough. When my hands were too cold, Eugénie took the reins and drove for me. We sang and laughed and ate in our cabriolet; we were our own masters; there were only we two; no tiresome coachman behind to grumble if we went too fast or if we whipped the horse, or to sneer as he counted the kisses we exchanged. It is so pleasant for people who love each other to be alone! We drove along the outskirts of the famous forest of Bondy, which is much less famous to-day, because there are fewer thieves in the forest and more in the salons. In due time we reached Livry, a village where there are almost no cottages, a town where there are few houses. We found our nurse’s house, and made a triumphal entry into a yard full of manure, mud and pools of water; what the peasants call piqueux. My wife had already alighted from the carriage; she had spied the nurse with a little one in her arms; and she ran to her, and seized the child, crying: “This is my daughter! I know her!” For my part, I confess that I should never have known her. When my daughter left us, she was three days old; and I consider that at that age all children resemble each other. She was now four months; one could begin to distinguish something; but I should never have been able to tell whether she was my daughter, or the nurse’s child, who was three months older; mothers never make a mistake. Eugénie examined her daughter admiringly and insisted that she looked like me already. With the best will in the world, I could detect no resemblance; and although I felt that I should love my daughter dearly, frankly, I could as yet see nothing adorable about her. What I admired was the corpulence and robust health of our nurse. That woman surely had strength enough to nurse four children at once; and as I contemplated her fat cheeks and her broad chest, I said, like Diderot: “One could kiss her for six weeks without kissing her twice in the same place.” I had done well to bring eatables, for we found nothing there but eggs, milk and pork; rustic delicacies, but not succulent. I ate with the peasants, while my wife held her daughter and crooned over her. Eugénie said that I was a glutton, that I preferred the pie to my daughter. I was very fond of both. I admit that I was unable to arouse any enthusiasm for a little creature who could not speak and could not do anything but make faces; but my heart told me that I should be none the less a good father, for all that. Exaggeration leads one wide of the truth, and enthusiasm does not demonstrate real feeling.