at the cost of hers. And M. Lemonnier would place his son in the cradle
and would sit down and watch him. He would sit this way by the hour,
looking at him, dreaming of thousands of things, sweet or sad. Then, when
the little one was asleep, he would bend over him and sob.

The child grew. The father could no longer spend an hour away from him;
he would stay near him, take him out for walks, and himself dress him,
wash him, make him eat. His friend, M. Duretour, also seemed to love the
boy; he would kiss him wildly, in those frenzies of tenderness which are
characteristic of parents. He would toss him in his arms, he would trot
him on his knees, by the hour, and M. Lemonnier, delighted, would mutter:

"Isn't he a darling? Isn't he a darling?"

And M. Duretour would hug the child in his arms and tickle his neck with
his mustache.

Celeste, the old nurse, alone, seemed to have no tenderness for the
little one. She would grow angry at his pranks, and seemed impatient at
the caresses of the two men. She would exclaim:

"How can you expect to bring a child up like that? You'll make a perfect
monkey out of him."

Years went by, and Jean was nine years old. He hardly knew how to read;
he had been so spoiled, and only did as he saw fit. He was willful,
stubborn and quick-tempered. The father always gave in to him and let him
have his own way. M. Duretour would always buy him all the toys he
wished, and he fed him on cake and candies. Then Celeste would grow angry
and exclaim: