At last the little girl awakens from her silent day-dream. She turns round and shows her violet eyes made bigger still with wonder, her nose which makes you smile to look at it, her tiny nose, quite white, that reminds you of a little pug dog’s black one, her solemn mouth, her shapely but too delicate chin, her cheeks a shade too pale. I recognize her. Oh yes! I recognize her with that instinctive certainty that is stronger than all convictions supported by all the proofs imaginable. Oh yes, ‘tis she, ‘tis indeed she and all that remains of the most charming of women. I try to hasten away but I cannot leave her. That hair of living gold, it is her mother’s hair; those violet eyes, they are her mother’s own; Oh, child of my dreams, child of my despair! I long to gather you to my arms, to steal you, to bear you away. But a governess draws near, calls the child and leads her away: “Come, Marguerite, come along, it’s time to go home.” And Marguerite, casting a look of sad farewell at the baby with its outstretched arms, reluctantly follows in the footsteps of a tall woman clad in black with ostrich feathers in her hat. [Illustration: Endpiece 033] [Illustration: 034] 10th July “Jean, bring me file 117.... Now then, M. Boscheron, let’s get this circular done. Take this down: _I draw your special attention, M. le Préfet, to the following point. An end must be put at the earliest possible moment to an abuse which, if suffered to continue, would tend to--tend to--I draw your special attention to the following point, M. le Préfet. An end must be put as soon as possible to an abuse_. Take that down, M. Boscheron.” But M. Boscheron, my secretary, respectfully remarks that I keep on dictating the same sentence. Jean deferentially places a file on my table. “What’s that, Jean?” “File number 117. You asked me to fetch it, sir.” “I asked you for file number 117?” “Yes, sir.” Jean gives me an anxious glance and retires. “Where were we, M. Boscheron?” “An end must be put as soon as possible to an abuse . . . .” “That’s right... _an abuse which would tend to diminish popular respect for government servants and to transform_... transform, what a wealth of hidden things that word conceals. I cannot so much as pronounce it but a world of ideas and sentiments come thronging pell-mell to invade the secret recesses of my being.” “I beg pardon, monsieur?” “What did you say, M. Boscheron?” “Please repeat, monsieur; I didn’t quite follow you.” “Really, Monsieur Boscheron? Possibly I was not very clear. Well, well! we will stop there if you like. Give me what I have dictated, I will finish it myself.” [Illustration: 036]