children, and a talent for amusing them, for making them laugh,
inventing comical toys for them, making the morning of their life
happy; for a specialty in dressing them, arranging their heads, and
giving to the whole little personage the most diverting appearance
possible. It is the only thing I really like about this country: the
babies and the manner in which they are understood.

* * * * *

On our way we meet our married friends of the _Triomphante_, who, much
surprised at seeing me with this _mousko_, chaffingly exclaim:

"What! a son already?"

Down in the town, we make a point of bidding good-by to Chrysanthème
at the turning of the street where her mother lives. She smiles
undecided, declares herself well again, and begs to return to our
house on the heights. This did not precisely enter into my plans, I
confess. However, it would look very ungracious to refuse.

So be it! But we must carry the _mousko_ home to his mamma, and then
begin, by the flickering light of a new lantern bought afresh from
Madame Très-Propre, our weary homeward ascent.

Here, however, we find ourselves in another predicament: this
ridiculous little Bambou insists upon coming with us! No, he will take
no denial, we must take him with us. This is out of all reason, quite
impossible!

However, it will not do to make him cry, on the night of a great