failing spring of temptation gushed from that shop. Behind its windows, always dirty, were ideal shepherdesses, herds of cattle, flocks of sheep of all colors ranged on grass-green meadows, fortresses defended by foot-soldiers that were round, whereas the tin soldiers of other dealers were flat. The horsemen against whom the foot-soldiers fought could be dismounted from their horses, and this simple matter made them as living, to us, as real cuirassiers and real dragoons. Then there were those boats with cabins and hatchways, and others that went by steam, with microscopic cannon which could be charged with real powder. As for me, the almost imperceptible hole bored in the breech of those guns by which to fire the charge took possession of my mind, and pursued me with the fascination of an eye. Try to remember it all as I do,—Commolet walking up and down among those enchanting things in that supernatural paradise, wearing his yellowish woollen cap with ear-pads, which never left his head. This spare individual with a steel-gray face, an interminable nose, and pale blue eyes, seemed to me a big toy himself, some queer and complicated mechanism placed among the others. You must surely remember how, when we could persuade our nurses to return from our walks along this dingy street (which is now pulled down), our hearts beat when the church came in sight above the roofs of the houses. But
