Sometimes the disaster is still more serious, and one repairs it as one can; but the philosopher who loves these disasters is indignant and squalls, swearing to himself to begin again. Those little folk are delightful; we love children, but this affection for the species in general becomes yet more sweet when it is no longer a question of a baby, but of one’s own baby. Bachelors must not read what follows; I wish to speak to the family circle. Between those of a trade there is a better understanding. I am a father, my dear madame, and have been of course the rejoicing papa of a matchless child. From beneath his cap there escaped a fair and curly tress that was our delight, and when I touched his white neck with my finger he broke into a laugh and showed me his little white pearls, as he clasped my head in his two chubby arms. His first tooth was an event. We went into the light the better to see. The grandparents looked through their glasses at the little white spot, and I, with outstretched neck, demonstrated, explained and proved. And all at once I ran off to the cellar to seek out in the right corner a bottle of the best. My son’s first tooth. We spoke of his career during dinner, and at dessert grand-mamma gave us a song. After this tooth came others, and with them tears and pain, but then when they were all there how proudly he bit into his slice of bread, how vigorously he attacked his chop in order to eat “like papa.” “Like papa,” do you remember how these two words warm the heart, and how many transgressions they cause to be forgiven. My great happiness,--is it yours too?--was to be present at my darling’s awakening. I knew the time. I would gently draw aside the curtains of his cradle and watch him as I waited. I usually found him stretched diagonally, lost in the chaos of sheets and blankets, his legs in the air, his arms crossed above his head. Often his plump little hand still clutched the toy that had helped to send him off to sleep, and through his parted lips came the regular murmur of his soft breathing. The warmth of his sleep had given his cheeks the tint of a well-ripened peach. His skin was warm, and the perspiration of the night glittered on his forehead in little imperceptible pearls. Soon his hand would make a movement; his foot pushed away the blanket, his whole body stirred, he rubbed an eye, stretched out his arms, and then his look from under his scarcely raised eyelids would rest on me. He would smile at me, murmuring softly, so softly that I would hold my breath to seize all the shades of his music. “Dood mornin’, papa.” “Good morning, my little man; have you slept well?” We held out our arms to each other and embraced like old friends. Then the talking would begin. He chatted as the lark would sing to the rising sun. Endless stories.