“My little Jeanne, my darling little Jeanne!”

She sometimes lost patience and said: 

“Come, come, be reasonable; eat and let me eat.”

He would sigh and break off a mouthful of bread, which he would then chew slowly.

For five years they had no children.  Then suddenly she announced to him that this state of affairs would soon cease.  He was wild with joy.  He no longer left her for a minute, until his old nurse, who had brought him up and who often ruled the house, would push him out and close the door behind him, in order to compel him to go out in the fresh air.

He had grown very intimate with a young man who had known his wife since childhood, and who was one of the prefect’s secretaries.  M. Duretour would dine three times a week with the Lemonniers, bringing flowers to madame, and sometimes a box at the theater; and often, at the end of the dinner, Lemonnier, growing tender, turning towards his wife, would explain:  “With a companion like you and a friend like him, a man is completely happy on earth.”

She died in childbirth.  The shock almost killed him.  But the sight of the child, a poor, moaning little creature, gave him courage.

He loved it with a passionate and sorrowful love, with a morbid love in which stuck the memory of death, but in which lived something of his worship for the dead mother.  It was the flesh of his wife, her being continued, a sort of quintessence of herself.  This child was her very life transferred to another body; she had disappeared that it might exist, and the father would smother it in with kisses.  But also, this child had killed her; he had stolen this beloved creature, his life was at the cost of hers.  And M. Lemonnier would place his son in the cradle and would sit down and watch him.  He would sit this way by the hour, looking at him, dreaming of thousands of things, sweet or sad.  Then, when the little one was asleep, he would bend over him and sob.

The child grew.  The father could no longer spend an hour away from him; he would stay near him, take him out for walks, and himself dress him, wash him, make him eat.  His friend, M. Duretour, also seemed to love the boy; he would kiss him wildly, in those frenzies of tenderness which are characteristic of parents.  He would toss him in his arms, he would trot him on his knees, by the hour, and M. Lemonnier, delighted, would mutter: 

“Isn’t he a darling?  Isn’t he a darling?”

And M. Duretour would hug the child in his arms and tickle his neck with his mustache.

Celeste, the old nurse, alone, seemed to have no tenderness for the little one.  She would grow angry at his pranks, and seemed impatient at the caresses of the two men.  She would exclaim: 

“How can you expect to bring a child up like that?  You’ll make a perfect monkey out of him.”

Years went by, and Jean was nine years old.  He hardly knew how to read; he had been so spoiled, and only did as he saw fit.  He was willful, stubborn and quick-tempered.  The father always gave in to him and let him have his own way.  M. Duretour would always buy him all the toys he wished, and he fed him on cake and candies.  Then Celeste would grow angry and exclaim: