The more your protection is necessary to another the more you enjoy granting it.  What is it then when this other is a second self, dearer than the first.  With convalescence comes another childhood, so to speak.  Fresh astonishments, fresh joys, fresh desires come one by one as health is restored.  But what is most touching and delightful, is that delicate coaxing by the child who still suffers and clings to you, that abandonment of himself to you, that extreme weakness that gives him wholly over to you.  At no period of his life has he so enjoyed your presence, has he taken refuge so willingly in your dressing-gown, has he listened more attentively to your stories and smiled more intelligently at your merriment.  Is it true, as it seems to you, that he has never been more charming?  Or is it simply that threatened danger has caused you to set a higher value on his caresses, and that you count over your treasures with all the more delight because you have been all but ruined?

But the little man is up again.  Beat drums; sound trumpets; come out of your hiding-places, broken horses; stream in, bright sun; a song from you little birds.  The little king comes to life again—­long live the king!  And you, your majesty, come and kiss your father.

What is singular is that this fearful crisis you have gone through becomes in some way sweet to you; you incessantly recur to it, you speak of it, you speak of it and cherish it in your mind; and, like the companions of AEneas, you seek by the recollection of past dangers to increase the present joy.

“Do you remember,” you say, “the day when he was so ill?  Do you remember his dim eyes, his poor; thin, little arm, and his pale lips?  And that morning the doctor went away after clasping our hands?”

It is only Baby who does not remember anything.  He only feels an overpowering wish to restore his strength, fill out his cheeks and recover his calves.

“Papa, are we going to have dinner soon, eh, papa?”

“Yes, it is getting dusk, wait a little.”

“But, papa, suppose we don’t wait?”

“In twenty minutes, you little glutton.”

“Twenty, is twenty a great many?  If you eat twenty cutlets would it make you ill?  But with potatoes, and jam, and soup, and—­is it still twenty minutes?”

Then again:  “Papa, when there is beef with sauce,” he has his mouth full of it, “red tomato sauce.”

“Yes, dear, well?”

“Well, a bullock is much bigger than what is on the dish; why don’t they bring the rest of the bullock?  I could eat it all and then some bread and then some haricots, and then—­”

He is insatiable when he has his napkin under his chin, and it is a happiness to see the pleasure he feels in working his jaws.  His little eyes glisten, his cheeks grow red; what he puts away into his little stomach it is impossible to say, and so busy is he that he has scarcely time to laugh between two mouthfuls.  Toward dessert his ardor slackens, his look becomes more and more languid, his fingers relax and his eyes close from time to time.