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In truth, the real honeymoon was for the grandmother. D’Athis, after this rash act, wished to be away from Paris for a time. He felt uneasy there. And as the child, clinging to his mother’s skirts ruled the house, they all established themselves in Irma’s native country, within hail of old father Salle’s chickens. It was indeed the most curious, the most ill-assorted household that could be imagined. Grandmama d’Athis and Grandpapa Salle met each night at the evening toilet of their grandson. The old poacher, his short black pipe wedged into the corner of his mouth; and the former reader at the Tuileries, with her silvery hair, and her imposing manner, together watched the lovely child rolling before them on the carpet, and admired him equally. The one brought him from Paris the newest, most expensive, most showy toys; the other manufactured for him the most splendid whistles from bits of elder; and, by Jove! the Dauphin hesitated between them!

Upon the whole, among all these beings grouped as it were by force around a cradle, the only really unhappy one was Charles d’Athis. His elegant and patrician inspiration suffered from this life in the depths of a forest, like a delicate Parisian woman for whom the country air is too strong. He could no longer work, and far from that terrible Paris who shuts her gates so quickly against the absent, he felt himself already nearly forgotten. Fortunately the child was there, and when the child smiled, the father thought no more of his successes as a poet, nor of the past of Irma Salle.

And now, would you know the finale of this singular drama? Read the brief note bordered with black, that I received only a few days ago, and which is the last page of this truly Parisian adventure:

“M. le Comte and Mme. la Comtesse d’Athis grieve to inform you of the death of their son Robert!”

Unhappy creatures! Imagine them all four gazing at each other before that empty cradle!