But, my patient reader, forget what have just said. Baby does not want
to leave you, he does not want to die, poor little thing, and if you
want a proof of it, watch him very closely; there, he smiles.
A very faint smile like those rays of sunlight that steal between two
clouds at the close of a wet winter. You rather guess at than see
this smile, but it is enough to warm your heart. The cloud begins to
disperse, he sees you, he hears you, he knows that papa is there,
your child is restored to you. His glance is already clearer. Call him
softly. He wants to turn, but he can not yet, and for his sole answer
his little hand, which is beginning to come to life again, moves and
crumples the sheet. Just wait a little, poor impatient father, and
tomorrow, on his awakening, he will say “Papa.” You will see what good
it will do you, this “Papa,” faint as a mere breath, this first scarcely
intelligible sign of a return to life. It will seem to you that your
child has been born again a second time.
He will still suffer, he will have further crises, the storm does not
become a calm all at once, but he will be able now to rest his head on
your shoulder, nestle in your arms among the blankets; he will be able
to complain, to ask help and relief of you with eye and voice; you will,
in short, be reunited, and you will be conscious that he suffers less
by suffering on your knees. You will hold his hand in yours, and if
you seek to go away he will look at you and grasp your finger. How many
things are expressed in this grasp. Dear sir, have you experienced it?
“Papa, do stay with me, you help to make me better; when I am alone I
am afraid of the pain. Hold me tightly to you, and I shall not suffer so
much.”
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.
“Mamma, I should like to go to bed,” he says, rubbing his eyes. Baby is
coming round.