Eugénie adored him, was mad over him. Every
day she put aside, in a big basket, tureens full of
bouillon, fine slices of meat, bottles of wine, cakes,
and delicious fruits, which the little one carried
to his parents.
"Why are you so late to-night?" asked Eugenie.
The little one excused himself in a drawling voice.
"I had to look out for the lodge. Mamma had gone on an errand."
"Your mother, your mother . . . are you telling me the truth, young scamp?"
She sighed, and, with her eyes gazing into the child’s eyes, and her two hands resting on his shoulders, she continued, in a mournful tone:
"When you are late, I am always afraid some- thing has happened. I do not want you to be late, my darling. You will say to your mother that, if that continues,—well, I will give you nothing more . . . for her."
Then, with quivering nostrils and her whole body shaken by a thrill, she said:
"How pretty you are, my love! Oh! your little phiz! your little phiz! Why did you not wear your pretty yellow shoes? I want you to look your best when you come to see me. And those eyes, those big eyes, you little brigand! Ah! Ill bet they have been looking at another woman. And
