I went home in despair.



December 30, 1859.


"Therese! don't you hear the bell? Somebody has been ringing at the
door for the last quarter of an hour?"

Therese does not answer. She is chattering downstairs with the
concierge, for sure. So that is the way you observe your old master's
birthday? You desert me even on the eve of Saint-Sylvestre! Alas!
if I am to hear any kind wishes to-day, they must come up from the
ground; for all who love me have long been buried. I really don't
know what I am still living for. There is the bell again!... I get
up slowly from my seat at the fire, with my shoulders still bent
from stooping over it, and go to the door myself. Whom do I see at
the threshold? It is not a dripping love, and I am not an old
Anacreon; but it is a very pretty little boy of about ten years old.
He is alone; he raises his face to look at me. His cheeks are
blushing; but his little pert nose gives one an idea of mischievous
pleasantry. He has feathers in his cap, and a great lace-ruff on
his jacket. The pretty little fellow! He holds in both arms a
bundle as big as himself, and asks me if I am Monsieur Sylvestre
Bonnard. I tell him yes; he gives me the bundle, tells me his mamma
sent it to me, and then he runs downstairs.

I go down a few steps; I lean over the balustrade, and see the little