ood little woman, she has been very brave.... Octave,
come and kiss your wife, and be quick about it if you don't want me to
kiss her myself. I will do what I say," he added, threatening to make
good his words.

Octave, buried in his child's cradle, did not hear.

"Good, now he is going to suffocate my Colonel for me."

My husband came at length. He held out his hand which was quivering with
emotion, and I grasped it with all my might. If my heart at that moment
did not break from excess of feeling, it was because God no doubt knew
that I should still have need of it.

You know, dear Marie, that before a child comes we love each other
as husband and wife, but we love each other on our own account, while
afterward we love each other on his, the dear love, who with his tiny
hand has rivetted the chain forever. God, therefore, allows the heart to
grow and swell. Mine was full; nevertheless, my baby came and took his
place in it. Yet nothing overflowed, and I still feel that there is room
for mother and yourself. You told me, and truly, that this would be
a new life, a life of deep love and delightful devotion. All my past
existence seems trivial and colorless to me, and I perceive that I am
beginning to live. I am as proud as a soldier who has been in battle.
Wife and mother, those words are our epaulettes. Grandmother is the
field-marshal's baton.

How sweet I shall render the existence of my two loved ones!

How I shall cherish them! I am wild, I weep, I should like to kiss you.
I am afraid I am too happy.

My husband is really good. He holds the child with such pleasing
awkwardness, it costs him such efforts to lift this slight burden. When
he brings it to me, wrapped in blankets, he walks with slow and careful
steps. One would think that the ground was going to crumble away beneath
his feet. Then he places the little treasure in my bed, quite close to
me, on a large pillow. We deck Baby; we settle him comfortably, and if
after many attempts we get him to smile, it is an endless joy. Often my
husband and I remain in the presence of this tiny creature, our heads
resting on our hands. We silently follow the hesitating and charming
movements of his little rosy-nailed hand on the silk, and we find in
this so deep a charm that it needs a considerable counter-attraction to
tear us away.

We have most amusing discussions on the shape of his forehead and the
color of his eyes, which always end in grand projects for his