merry laughter, ringing clear in the desert of the staircase:

"Father, don't forget my music."

"Father, my crochet wool."

"Father, bring us some rolls."

And the voice of the father calling from below:

"Yaia, bring me down my portfolio, please."

"There you are, you see! He has forgotten his portfolio."

And there would be a glad scurry from top to bottom of the house, a
running of all those pretty faces confused by sleep, of all those heads
with disordered hair which the owners made tidy as they ran, until the
moment when, leaning over the baluster, half a dozen girls bade loud
good-bye to a little, old gentleman, neat and well-groomed, whose
reddish face and short profile disappeared at length in the spiral
perspective of the stairs. M. Joyeuse had departed for his office.
At once the whole band, escaped from their cage, would rush quickly
upstairs again to the fourth floor, and, the door having been opened,
group themselves at an open casement to gain one last glimpse of their
father. The little man used to turn round, kisses were exchanged across
the distance, then the windows were closed, the new and tenantless house
became quiet again, except for the posters dancing their wild saraband
in the wind of the unfinished street, as if made gay, they also, by all
these proceedings. A moment later the photographer on the fifth floor
would descend to hang at the door his showcase, always the same, in