ul hangs upon the lips
of a beautiful baby doll that seems to be calling her his mummy. He
is hitched on to one of the poles of the booth all by himself. He
dominates, he effaces everything else. Once you have beheld him, you see
naught else save him.

Bolt upright in his warm wraps, a little swansdown tucker under his
chin, he is stretching out his little chubby arms for some one to take
him. He speaks straight to the little maid's heart. He appeals to her
by every maternal instinct she possesses. He is enchanting. His face has
three little dots, two black ones for the eyes, and one red one for the
mouth. But his eyes speak, his mouth invites you. He is alive.

Philosophers are a heedless race. They pass by dolls with never a
thought. Nevertheless the doll is more than the statue, more than the
idol. It finds its way to the heart of woman, long ere she be a woman.
It gives her the first thrill of maternity. The doll is a thing august.
Wherefore cannot one of our great sculptors be so very kind as to take
the trouble to model dolls whose lineaments, coming to life beneath his
fingers, would tell of wisdom and of beauty?

At last the little girl awakens from her silent day-dream. She turns
round and shows her violet eyes made bigger still with wonder, her nose
which makes you smile to look at it, her tiny nose, quite white, that
reminds you of a little pug dog's black one, her solemn mouth, her
shapely but too delicate chin, her cheeks a shade too pale. I recognize
her. Oh yes! I recognize her with that instinctive certainty that is
stronger than all convictions supported by all the proofs imaginable. Oh
yes, 'tis she, 'tis indeed she and all that remains of the most charming
of women. I try to hasten away but I cannot leave her. That hair of
living gold, it is her mother's hair; those violet eyes, they are her
mother's own; Oh, child of my dreams, child of my despair! I long to
gather you to my arms, to steal you, to bear you away.

But a governess draws near, calls the child and leads her away: "Come,
Marguerite, come along, it's time to go home."

And Marguerite, casting a look of sad farewell at the baby with its
outstretched arms, reluctantly follows in the footsteps of a tall woman
clad in black with ostrich feathers in her hat.

[Illustration: Endpiece 033]

[Illustration: 034]

10th July

"Jean, bring me file 117.... Now then, M. Boscheron, let's get this
circular done. Take this down: _I draw