"Will you hold your tongue--a great tall boy like you! just beginning to learn to write. You, want to play with the little rabbit!" "Yes, I like rabbits, and I want to play with 'em." "It seems to me," said Cherami, "that you ought not to be too hard on the child for liking rabbits; this is a good school for that. By dint of eating a thing, one sometimes ends by acquiring a taste for it. When I was a boy, I remember, I could not endure bread-soup, but they made me eat it every day to force me to like it." "And you ended by liking it?" "No; I detest it!" "Come, Narcisse, come and recite your poetry to your dear aunt--if you don't, she won't give you another beautiful hat with feathers." "I don't want any more of her feathers; they make me blind. Somebody told me that I looked like a trained dog in that hat." "Look out, Monsieur Narcisse, or we shall be cross with you! Your poetry, this minute!" "No, I won't!" "Ah! we'll see about that, you little rascal!" Madame Capucine left the table, seized Cherami's switch, which was standing in a corner, and advanced upon her son; but young Narcisse, when he saw what he was threatened with, began to run around the table, thus compelling his mother, still armed with the formidable switch, to run after him, striking blindly in every direction. Thinking that she was chastising her son, she twice brought the switch down on Cherami's shoulders, who found the manoeuvre executed by the stout woman and her son far from amusing, although it reminded him somewhat of a circus performance. At last, seeing that he was on the point of being captured, Narcisse changed his tactics, and slipped under the table. Madame Capucine, although disconcerted for a moment by this evolution, soon found a way to profit by it; she thrust her switch under the table, striking at random to right and left. Thereupon, the old aunt began to cry out: her niece was switching her legs. Luckily, Cherami succeeded in pulling Narcisse out from under the table; he was forced to stand in front of Madame Duponceau; and his mother stationed herself by his side, with her stick in the air, saying in a threatening tone: "Your poetry, quick!" Master Narcisse, although still in the sulks, decided to obey, and muttered in a drawling voice: "'Ah! que je suis--Ah! que je suis donc content! De vous--de vous--de vous----'" "_De vous_, what, idiot?" "I forget." "You just wait, and I'll freshen your memory, you bad boy!" "'De vous feter, objet charmant----'" "It can't be _objet charmant!_ I know that's wrong." "Why do you think it can't be _objet charmant_, niece, I should like to know?" said Madame Duponceau, pursing up her lips. "Because, aunt, I am perfectly sure it's something else." "In my judgment," interposed Cherami, "_objet charmant_ should be allowed to remain; the expression is most appropriate." The old aunt was so delighted by the compliment, that she left her seat and embraced her guest again.