2. II.
THE INFANT.
She is a child—a little thing—an infant.
She has a mother and father. Let us suppose, for
example, they are married. Let us be moral if we
cannot be happy and free—they are married—perhaps—they
love one another—who knows?
But she knows nothing of this; she is an infant—
a small thing—a trifle!
She is not lovely at first. It is cruel, perhaps—
but she is red—and positively ugly. She feels this
keenly, and cries. She weeps. Ah, my God! how
she weeps! Her cries and lamentations now are
really distressing.
Tears stream from her in floods. She feels deeply
and copiously like M. Alphonse de Lamartine in his
Confessions.
If you are her mother, Madame, you will fancy
worms; you will examine her linen for pins and
what not. Ah, hypocrite! you, even you, misunderstand
her.
Yet she has charming natural impulses. See how
she tosses her dimpled arms. She looks longingly
at her mother. She has a language of her own.
She says, “goo goo,” and “ga ga.”
She demands something—this infant!
She is faint, poor thing. She famishes. She
wishes to be restored. Restore her, Mother!
It is the first duty of a mother to restore her child!
