iness till you
have had your tea or your coffee.

You have taken it into your head, for instance, to send your son to
school. All fathers are hypocrites and are never willing to confess that
their own flesh and blood is very troublesome when it walks about on two
legs, lays its dare-devil hands on everything, and is everywhere at
once like a frisky pollywog. Your son barks, mews, and sings; he breaks,
smashes and soils the furniture, and furniture is dear; he makes toys of
everything, he scatters your papers, and he cuts paper dolls out of the
morning's newspaper before you have read it.

His mother says to him, referring to anything of yours: "Take it!" but
in reference to anything of hers she says: "Take care!"

She cunningly lets him have your things that she may be left in peace.
Her bad faith as a good mother seeks shelter behind her child, your son
is her accomplice. Both are leagued against you like Robert Macaire and
Bertrand against the subscribers to their joint stock company. The boy
is an axe with which foraging excursions are performed in your domains.
He goes either boldly or slyly to maraud in your wardrobe: he reappears
caparisoned in the drawers you laid aside that morning, and brings to
the light of day many articles condemned to solitary confinement. He
brings the elegant Madame Fischtaminel, a friend whose good graces you
cultivate, your girdle for checking corpulency, bits of cosmetic for
dyeing your moustache, old waistcoats discolored at the arm-holes,
stockings slightly soiled at the heels and somewhat yellow at the toes.
It is quite impossible to remark that these stains are caused by the
leather!

Your wife looks at your friend and laughs; you dare not be angry, so you
laugh too, but what a laugh! The unfortunate all know that laugh.

Your son, moreover, gives you a cold sweat, if your razors happen to be
out of their place. If you are angry, the little rebel laughs and shows
his two rows of pearls: if you scold him, he cries. His mother rushes
in! And what a mother she is! A mother who will detest you if you don't
give him the razor! With women there is no middle ground; a man is
either a monster or a model.

At certain times you perfectly understand Herod and his famous decrees
relative to the Massacre of the Innocents, which have only been
surpassed by those of the good Charles X!

Your wife has returned to her sofa, you walk up and down, and stop, and
you boldly introduce the subjec