I only had time to catch up my little man, who was crying with fright, and to run and squeeze myself against a hedge which was somewhat protected by the old willows.  I opened my umbrella, crouched down behind it, and, unbuttoning my big coat, stuffed Baby inside.  He clung closely to me.  My dog placed himself between my legs, and Baby, thus sheltered by his two friends, began to smile from the depths of his hiding-place.  I looked at him and said: 

“Well, little man, are you all right?”

“Yes, dear papa.”

I felt his two arms clasp round my waist—­I was much thinner than I am now—­and I saw that he was grateful to me for acting as a roof to him.  Through the opening he stretched out his little lips and I bent mine down.

“Is it still raining outside, papa?”

“It will soon be over.”

“Already, I am so comfortable inside you.”

How all this stays in your heart.  It is perhaps silly to relate these little joys, but how sweet it is to recall them.

We reached home as muddy as two water-dogs and we were well scolded.  But when evening had come and Baby was in bed and I went to kiss him and tickle him a little, as was our custom, he put his two little arms round my neck and whispered:  “When it rains we will go again, eh?”

CHAPTER XXXII

HE WOULD HAVE BEEN FORTY NOW

When you have seen your child born, have watched his first steps in life, have noted him smile and weep, have heard him call you papa as he stretches out his little arms to you, you think that you have become acquainted with all the joys of paternity, and, as though satiated with these daily joys that are under your hand, you already begin to picture those of the morrow.  You rush ahead, and explore the future; you are impatient, and gulp down present happiness in long draughts, instead of tasting it drop by drop.  But Baby’s illness suffices to restore you to reason.

To realize the strength of the ties that bind you to him, it is necessary to have feared to see them broken; to know that a river is deep, you must have been on the point of drowning in it.

Recall the morning when, on drawing aside the curtain of his bed, you saw on the pillow his little face, pale and thin.  His sunken eyes, surrounded by a bluish circle, were half closed.  You met his glance, which seemed to come through a veil; he saw you, without smiling at you.  You said, “Good morning,” and he did not answer.  His face only expressed dejection and weakness, it was no longer that of your child.  He gave a kind of sigh, and his heavy eyelids drooped.  You took his hands, elongated, transparent, and with colorless nails; they were warm and moist.  You kissed them, those poor little hands, but there was no responsive thrill to the contact of your lips.  Then you turned round, and saw your wife weeping behind you.  It was at that moment when you felt yourself shudder from