How pretty she is! "She is your very picture, Madame Chorche." "Do you think so, my dear Risler?
Why, everybody says she looks like her father." "Yes, a little.

But--" And there they all stand, the father and mother, Risler and the nurse, gravely seeking resemblances in that miniature model of a human being, who stares at them out of her little eyes, blinking with the noise and glare.

Sidonie, at her open window, leans out to see what they are doing, and why her husband does not come up.
At that moment Risler has taken the tiny creature in his arms, the whole fascinating bundle of white draperies and light ribbons, and is trying to make it laugh and crow with baby-talk and gestures worthy of a grandfather.

How old he looks, poor man! His tall body, which he contorts for the child's amusement, his hoarse voice, which becomes a low growl when he tries to soften it, are absurd and ridiculous.
Above, the wife taps the floor with her foot and mutters between her teeth: "The idiot!" At last, weary of waiting, she sends a servant to tell Monsieur that breakfast is served; but the game is so far advanced that Monsieur does not see how he can go away, how he can interrupt these explosions of laughter and little bird-like cries.

He succeeds at last, however, in giving the child back to its nurse, and enters the hall, laughing heartily.