even supposing he allowed me to, for his
manly dignity is ticklish. He passes half his life armed for war, his
pistols, his guns, his whips and his swords are all over the place. There
is a healthy frankness about all his doings that charms me.

Do you imagine from this that my demon no longer has any good in him? At
times he is an angel and freely returns the caresses I bestow upon him.
In the evening after dinner he gets down into my armchair, takes my head
in his hands and arranges my hair in his own way. His fresh little mouth
travels all over my face. He imprints big sounding kisses on the back of
my neck, which makes me shudder all over. We have endless talks together.
"Why's" come in showers, and all these "why's" require real answers; for
the intelligence of children is above all things logical. I will only
give one of his sayings as a proof.

His grandmother is rather unwell, and every night he tacks on to his
prayer these simple words, "Please God make Granny well, because I love
her so." But for greater certainty he has added on his own account, "You
know, God, Granny who lives in the Rue Saint-Louis, on the first floor."
He says all this with an expression of simple confidence and such comic
seriousness, the little love. You understand, it is to spare God the
trouble of looking for the address.

I leave you; I hear him cough. I do not know whether he has caught cold,
but I think he has been looking rather depressed since the morning. Do
not laugh at me, I am not otherwise uneasy.

Yours most affectionately.

Yesterday there was a consultation. On leaving the house my old doctor's
eyes were moist; he strove to hide it, but I saw a tear. My child must be
very ill then? The thought is dreadful, dear. They seek to reassure me,
but I tremble.

The night has not brought any improvement. Still this fever. If you could
see the state of the pretty little body we used to admire so. I will not
think of what God may have in store for me. Ice has been ordered to be
put to his head. His hair had to be cut off. Poor fair little curls that
used to float in the wind as he ran after his hoop. It is terrible. I
have dreadful forebodings.

My child, my poor child! He is so weak that not a word comes now from his
pale parched lips. His large eyes that still shine in the depths of their
sockets, smile at me from time to time, but this smile is so gentle, so
faint, that it resembles a farewell. A farewell!