was an imitation of a park, and stopped in front of a turreted house,
which tried to look like a chateau.

"That is my den," said Simon, so that I might compliment him on it. "It
is charming," I replied.

A lady appeared on the steps, dressed for company, and with company
phrases all ready prepared. She was no longer the light-haired, insipid
girl I had seen in church fifteen years previously, but a stout lady in
curls and flounces, one of those ladies of uncertain age, without
intellect, without any of those things that go to make a woman. In short,
she was a mother, a stout, commonplace mother, a human breeding machine
which procreates without any other preoccupation but her children and her
cook-book.

She welcomed me, and I went into the hall, where three children, ranged
according to their height, seemed set out for review, like firemen before
a mayor, and I said: "Ah! ah! so there are the others?" Simon, radiant
with pleasure, introduced them: "Jean, Sophie and Gontran."

The door of the drawing-room was open. I went in, and in the depths of an
easy-chair, I saw something trembling, a man, an old, paralyzed man.
Madame Radevin came forward and said: "This is my grandfather, monsieur;
he is eighty-seven." And then she shouted into the shaking old man's
ears: "This is a friend of Simon's, papa." The old gentleman tried to say
"good-day" to me, and he muttered: "Oua, oua, oua," and waved his hand,
and I took a seat saying: "You are very kind, monsieur."

Simon had just come in, and he said with a laugh: "So! You have made
grandpapa's acquaintance. He is a treasure, that old man; he is the
delight of the children. But he is so greedy that he almost kills himself
at every meal; you have no idea what he would eat if he were allowed to
do as he pleased. But you will see, you will see. He looks at all the
sweets as if they were so many girls. You never saw anything so funny;
you will see presently."

I was then shown to my room, to change my dress for dinner, and hearing a
great clatter behind me on the stairs, I turned round and saw that all
the children were following me behind their father; to do me honor, no
doubt.

My windows looked out across a dreary, interminable plain, an ocean of
grass, of wheat and of oats, without a clump of trees or any rising
ground, a striking and melancholy picture of the life which they must be
leading in that house.

A bell rang; it was for dinner, and I went downstairs. Madam