at the termination of the avenue, the Arc de Triomphe, which bears
under its vaults the names of Uncle Victor's companions-in-arms,
opens its giant gate against the sky. The trees of the avenue are
unfolding to the sun of spring their first leaves, still all pale
and chilly. Beside me the carriages keep rolling by to the Bois
de Boulogne. Unconsciously I have wandered into this fashionable
avenue on my promenade, and halted, quite stupidly, in front of a
booth stocked with gingerbread and decanters of liquorice-water,
each topped by a lemon. A miserable little boy, covered with rags,
which expose his chapped skin, stares with widely opened eyes at
those sumptuous sweets which are not for such as he. With the
shamelessness of innocence he betrays his longing. His round, fixed
eyes contemplate a certain gingerbread man of lofty stature. It
is a general, and it looks a little like Uncle Victor. I take it,
I pay for it, and present it to the little pauper, who dares not
extend his hand to receive it--for, by reason of precocious
experience, he cannot believe in luck; he looks at me, in the same
way that certain big dogs do, with the air of one saying, "You are
cruel to make fun of me like that!"

"Come, little stupid," I say to him, in that rough tone I am
accustomed to use, "take it--take it, and eat it; for you, happier
than I was at your age, you can satisfy your tastes without
disgracing yourself."...And you, Uncle Victor--you, whose manly
figure has been recalled to me by that gingerbread general, come,
glorious Shadow, help me to forget my new doll. We remain for ever
children, and are always running after new toys.