My father, on his way to the cellar, lantern in hand, and escorted by his old servant, Jean, who is carrying the basket, halts.  “Why, children, how late you are!  Come to my arms, my dears; this is the day on which one kisses in good earnest.  Jean, hold my lantern a minute.”  And as my old father clasps me to his breast, his hand seeks out mine and grasps it, with a long clasp.  Baby, who glides in between our legs, pulls our coat-tails and holds up his little mouth for a kiss too.

“But I am keeping you here in the anteroom and you are frozen; go into the drawing-room, there are a good fire and good friends there.”

They have heard us, the door opens, and a number of arms are held out to us.  Amid handshakings, embracings, good wishes, and kisses, boxes are opened, bonbons are showered forth, parcels are undone, mirth becomes deafening, and good humor tumultuous.  Baby standing amid his presents resembles a drunken man surrounded by a treasure, and from time to time gives a cry of joy on discovering some fresh toy.

“The little man’s fable,” exclaims my father, swinging his lantern which he has taken again from Jean.

A deep silence ensues, and the poor child, whose debut in the elocutionary art it is, suddenly loses countenance.  He casts down his eyes, blushes and takes refuge in the arms of his mother, who, stooping down, whispers, “Come, darling, ‘A lamb was quenching’; you know the wolf and the lamb.”

“Yes, mamma, I know the little lamb that wanted to drink.”  And in a contrite voice, his head bent down on his breast, he repeats with a deep sigh, “‘A little lamb was quenching his thirst in a clear stream."’

We all, with ears on the alert and a smile on our lips, follow his delightful little jargon.

Uncle Bertrand, who is rather deaf, has made an ear trumpet of his hand and drawn his chair up.  “Ah!  I can follow it,” he says.  “It is the fox and the grapes.”  And as there is a murmur of “Hush,” at this interruption, he adds:  “Yes, yes, he recites with intelligence, great intelligence.”

Success restores confidence to my darling, who finishes his fable with a burst of laughter.  Joy is communicative, and we take our places at table amid the liveliest mirth.

“By the way,” says my father, “where the deuce is my lantern.  I have forgotten all about the cellar.  Jean, take your basket and let us go and rummage behind the fagots.”

The soup is smoking, and my mother, after having glanced smilingly round the table, plunges her ladle into the tureen.  Give me the family dinner table at which those we love are seated, at which we may risk resting our elbows at dessert, and at which at thirty we once more taste the wine offered at our baptism.

CHAPTER XXIV

Letters of A young mother to her friend.