Monsieur, Madame, and Bebe -- V

harming, and Baby, amid its white wool, looks like a rosebud hidden in the snow. I am becoming poetical, am I not? But what would you have? My poor heart is overflowing with joy. My son, do you u

s close to me, I caught hold

f, my dear ch

will kiss you again. G

ite sure i

mily were waiting, I could hear amid the sound of kis

left me, overcome with fatigue and emotion, wa

nd it all, strings, I will have strings. What? Give m

the twinkling of an e

ear patient . . . with a hot-water bottle to his feet. Not too much fire, especiall

as just ajar, Aunt Ursula whispered, "Doctor,

off; silence and quiet are absol

an, she has been very brave . . . . Octave, come and kiss your wife, and be quick about it if you do

his child's crad

oing to suffocate

d I grasped it with all my might. If my heart at that moment did not break from exce

ows 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 an

nder the existence o

m! I am wild, I weep, I

id I am t

umble 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 pr

d and the color of his eyes, which always end in grand proje

l of meaning. Poor, dear little ambassador, with only three hairs on your head! But what dear hairs they are, those threads of gold c

bind us to our children? Is it an atom of our own soul, a part of our own life, which animates and vivifies them? There must be somethin

like a gluttonous little kitten, he falls asleep with his rosy cheek resting on my arm. His limbs gently relax, hi

is not a quiver of his being that escapes me or that does not vibrate in myself. I feel at the bottom of my heart a mirror that reflects them all. He is still part of me. Is it not my milk that nourishes him, my voice that h

en who pass by such joys withou

ere is also the future, far away in the clouds. I often think of

to the arms in which he now is sleeping? Perhaps at that wretched moment they call a man's youth you will forget me, my little darling! Other hands than mine perhaps will brush the hair away from your forehead at twenty. Alas! other lips, pressed burningly where mine are now pressed, will wipe out with a kiss twenty years of caresses. Yes, but when you return from

r I should never dare to send it to you. What would you have? I am losing my he