When the child was tired of putting the “flesh color” upon the faces of all the persons in the engravings, he got up and went to peep through the railings of the balustrade.  He saw extending before him, from right to left, with a graceful curve, the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, one of the quietest streets in the Luxembourg quarter, then only half built up.  The branches of the trees spread over the wooden fences, which enclosed gardens so silent and tranquil that passers by could hear the birds singing in their cages.

It was a September afternoon, with a broad expanse of pure sky across which large clouds, like mountains of silver, moved in majestic slowness.

Suddenly a soft voice called him: 

“Amedee, your father will return from the office soon.  We must wash your hands before we sit down to the table, my darling.”

His mother came out upon the balcony for him.  His mother; his dear mother, whom he knew for so short a time!  It needs an effort for him to call her to mind now, his memories are so indistinct.  She was so modest and pretty, so pale, and with such charming blue eyes, always carrying her head on one side, as if the weight of her lovely chestnut hair was too heavy for her to bear, and smiling the sweet, tired smile of those who have not long to live!  She made his toilette, kissed him upon his forehead, after brushing his hair.  Then she laid their modest table, which was always decorated with a pretty vase of flowers.  Soon the father entered.  He was one of those mild, unpretentious men who let everybody run over them.

He tried to be gay when he entered his own house.  He raised his little boy aloft with one arm, before kissing him, exclaiming, “Houp la!” A moment later he kissed his young wife and held her close to him, tenderly, as he asked, with an anxious look: 

“Have you coughed much to-day?”

She always replied, hanging her head like a child who tells an untruth, “No, not very much.”

The father would then put on an old coat—­the one he took off was not very new.  Amedee was then seated in a high chair before his mug, and the young mother, going into the kitchen, would bring in the supper.  After opening his napkin, the father would brush back behind his ear with his hand a long lock on the right side, that always fell into his eyes.

“Is there too much of a breeze this evening? you afraid to go out upon the balcony, Lucie?  Put a shawl on, then,” said M. Violette, while his wife was pouring the water remaining in the carafe upon a box where some nasturtiums were growing.

“No, Paul, I am sure—­take Amedee down from his chair, and let us go out upon the balcony.”

It was cool upon this high balcony.  The sun had set, and now the great clouds resembled mountains of gold, and a fresh odor came up from the surrounding gardens.

“Good-evening, Monsieur Violette,” suddenly said a cordial voice.  “What a fine evening!”