“Impossible,” they reply; “I am expected over there.  There I shall converse, there I shall drink delicious wine, there I shall give expansion to paternal love, there I shall be happy!”

And when they do get “there,” breathless and tired out, and claim the price of their fatigue, the present, laughing behind its spectacles, says, “Monsieur, the bank is closed.”

The future promises, it is the present that pays, and one should have a good understanding with the one that keeps the keys of the safe.

Why fancy that you are a dupe of Providence?

Do you think that Providence has the time to serve up to each of you perfect happiness, already dressed on a golden plate, and to play music during your repast into the bargain?  Yet that is what a great many people would like.

We must be reasonable, tuck up our sleeves and look after our cooking ourselves, and not insist that heaven should put itself out of the way to skim our soup.

I used to muse on all this of an evening when my baby was in my arms, and his moist, regular breathing fanned my hand.  I thought of the happy moments he had already given me, and was grateful to him for them.

“How easy it is,” I said to myself, “to be happy, and what a singular fancy that is of going as far as China in quest of amusement.”

My wife was of my opinion, and we would sit for hours by the fire talking of what we felt.

“You, do you see, dear? love otherwise than I do,” she often said to me.  “Papas calculate more.  Their love requires a return.  They do not really love their child till the day on which their self-esteem as its father is flattered.  There is something of ownership in it.  You can analyze paternal love, discover its causes, say ’I love my child because he is so and so, or so and so.’  With the mother such analysis is impossible, she does not love her child because he is handsome or ugly, because he does or does not resemble her, has or has not her tastes.  She loves him because she can not help it, it is a necessity.  Maternal love is an innate sentiment in woman.  Paternal love is, in man, the result of circumstances.  In her love is an instinct, in him a calculation, of which, it is true, he is unconscious, but, in short, it is the outcome of several other feelings.”

“That is all very fine; go on,” I said.  “We have neither heart nor bowels, we are fearful savages.  What you say is monstrous.”  And I stirred the logs furiously with the tongs.

Yet my wife was right, I acknowledged to myself.  When a child comes into the world the affection of the father is not to be compared to that of the mother.  With her it is love already.  It seems that she has known him for a long time, her pretty darling.  At his first cry it might be said that she recognized him.  She seems to say, “It is he.”  She takes him without the slightest embarrassment, her movements are natural, she shows no awkwardness,