Little Sylvestre’s cradle used to be in it. He was a very pretty child, but very pale. When he used to play on the grass, his mother would watch him very anxiously; and every little while she would stop her sewing in order to take him upon her lap. The poor little fellow never wanted to go to sleep. He used to say that when he was asleep he would go away, very far away, to some place where it was all dark, and where he saw things that made him afraid--things he never wanted to see again. Then his mother would call me, and I would sit down beside his cradle. He would take one of my fingers in his little dry warm hand, and say to me, “Godfather, you must tell me a story.” Then I would tell him all kinds of stories, which he would listen to very seriously. They all interested him, but there was one especially which filled his little soul with delight. It was “The Blue Bird.” Whenever I finished that, he would say to me, “Tell it again! tell it again!” And I would tell it again until his little pale blue-veined head sank back upon the pillow in slumber. The doctor used to answer all our questions by saying, “There is nothing extraordinary the matter with him!” No! There was nothing extraordinary the matter with little Sylvestre. One evening last year his father called me. “Come,” he said, “the little one is still worse.” I approached the cradle over which the mother hung motionless, as if tied down above it by all the powers of her soul. Little Sylvestre turned his eyes towards me; their pupils had already rolled up beneath his eyelids, and could not descend again. “Godfather,” he said, “you are not to tell me any more stories.” No, I was not to tell him any more stories! Poor Jeanne!--poor mother! I am too old now to feel very deeply; but how strangely painful a mystery is the death of a child! To-day, the father and mother have come to pass six weeks under the old man’s roof. I see them now returning from the woods, walking arm-in-arm. Jeanne is closely wrapped in her black shawl, and Henri wears a crape band on his straw hat; but they are both of them radiant with youth, and they smile very sweetly at each other. They smile at the earth which sustains them; they smile at the air which bathes them; they smile at the light which each one sees in the eyes of the other. From my window I wave my handkerchief at them,--and they smile at my old age. Jeanne comes running lightly up the stairs; she kisses me, and then whispers in my ear something which I divine rather than hear. And I make answer to her: “May God’s blessing be with you, Jeanne, and with your husband, and with your children, and with your children’s children for ever!”... Et nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine! End of Project Gutenberg’s The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard, by Anatole France