You have made a transition from the frolicsome allegretto of the bachelor to the heavy andante of the father of a family.

Instead of that fine English steed prancing and snorting between the polished shafts of a tilbury as light as your own heart, and moving his glistening croup under the quadruple network of the reins and ribbons that you so skillfully manage with what grace and elegance the Champs Elysees can bear witness ­you drive a good solid Norman horse with a steady, family gait.

You have learned what paternal patience is, and you let no opportunity slip of proving it.  Your countenance, therefore, is serious.

By your side is a domestic, evidently for two purposes like the carriage.  The vehicle is four-wheeled and hung upon English springs:  it is corpulent and resembles a Rouen scow:  it has glass windows, and an infinity of economical arrangements.  It is a barouche in fine weather, and a brougham when it rains.  It is apparently light, but, when six persons are in it, it is heavy and tires out your only horse.

On the back seat, spread out like flowers, is your young wife in full bloom, with her mother, a big marshmallow with a great many leaves.  These two flowers of the female species twitteringly talk of you, though the noise of the wheels and your attention to the horse, joined to your fatherly caution, prevent you from hearing what they say.

On the front seat, there is a nice tidy nurse holding a little girl in her lap:  by her side is a boy in a red plaited shirt, who is continually leaning out of the carriage and climbing upon the cushions, and who has a thousand times drawn down upon himself those declarations of every mother, which he knows to be threats and nothing else:  “Be a good boy, Adolphe, or else ­” “I declare I’ll never bring you again, so there!”

His mamma is secretly tired to death of this noisy little boy:  he has provoked her twenty times, and twenty times the face of the little girl asleep has calmed her.

“I am his mother,” she says to herself.  And so she finally manages to keep her little Adolphe quiet.

You have put your triumphant idea of taking your family to ride into execution.  You left your home in the morning, all the opposite neighbors having come to their windows, envying you the privilege which your means give you of going to the country and coming back again without undergoing the miseries of a public conveyance.  So you have dragged your unfortunate Norman horse through Paris to Vincennes, from Vincennes to Saint Maur, from Saint Maur to Charenton, from Charenton opposite some island or other which struck your wife and mother-in-law as being prettier than all the landscapes through which you had driven them.

“Let’s go to Maison’s!” somebody exclaims.

So you go to Maison’s, near Alfort.  You come home by the left bank of the Seine, in the midst of a cloud of very black Olympian dust.  The horse drags your family wearily along.  But alas! your pride has fled, and you look without emotion upon his sunken flanks, and upon two bones which stick out on each side of his belly.  His coat is roughened by the sweat which has repeatedly come out and dried upon him, and which, no less than the dust, has made him gummy, sticky and shaggy.  The horse looks like a wrathy porcupine:  you are afraid he will be foundered, and you caress him with the whip-lash in a melancholy way that he perfectly understands, for he moves his head about like an omnibus horse, tired of his deplorable existence.

You think a good deal of this horse; your consider him an excellent one and he cost you twelve hundred francs.  When a man has the honor of being the father of a family, he thinks as much of twelve hundred francs as you think of this horse.  You see at once the frightful amount of your extra expenses, in case Coco should have to lie by.  For two days you will have to take hackney coaches to go to your business.  You wife will pout if she can’t go out:  but she will go out, and take a carriage.  The horse will cause the purchase of numerous extras, which you will find in your coachman’s bill, ­your only coachman, a model coachman, whom you watch as you do a model anybody.

To these thoughts you give expression in the gentle movement of the whip as it falls upon the animal’s ribs, up to his knees in the black dust which lines the road in front of La Verrerie.

At this moment, little Adolphe, who doesn’t know what to do in this rolling box, has sadly twisted himself up into a corner, and his grandmother anxiously asks him, “What is the matter?”

“I’m hungry,” says the child.

“He’s hungry,” says the mother to her daughter.

“And why shouldn’t he be hungry?  It is half-past five, we are not at the barrier, and we started at two!”

“Your husband might have treated us to dinner in the country.”

“He’d rather make his horse go a couple of leagues further, and get back to the house.”

“The cook might have had the day to herself.  But Adolphe is right, after all:  it’s cheaper to dine at home,” adds the mother-in-law.

“Adolphe,” exclaims your wife, stimulated by the word “cheaper,” “we go so slow that I shall be seasick, and you keep driving right in this nasty dust.  What are you thinking of?  My gown and hat will be ruined!”

“Would you rather ruin the horse?” you ask, with the air of a man who can’t be answered.

“Oh, no matter for your horse; just think of your son who is dying of hunger:  he hasn’t tasted a thing for seven hours.  Whip up your old horse!  One would really think you cared more for your nag than for your child!”

You dare not give your horse a single crack with the whip, for he might still have vigor enough left to break into a gallop and run away.

“No, Adolphe tries to vex me, he’s going slower,” says the young wife to her mother.  “My dear, go as slow as you like.  But I know you’ll say I am extravagant when you see me buying another hat.”

Upon this you utter a series of remarks which are lost in the racket made by the wheels.

“What’s the use of replying with reasons that haven’t got an ounce of common-sense?” cries Caroline.

You talk, turning your face to the carriage and then turning back to the horse, to avoid an accident.

“That’s right, run against somebody and tip us over, do, you’ll be rid of us.  Adolphe, your son is dying of hunger.  See how pale he is!”

“But Caroline,” puts in the mother-in-law, “he’s doing the best he can.”

Nothing annoys you so much as to have your mother-in-law take your part.  She is a hypocrite and is delighted to see you quarreling with her daughter.  Gently and with infinite precaution she throws oil on the fire.

When you arrive at the barrier, your wife is mute.  She says not a word, she sits with her arms crossed, and will not look at you.  You have neither soul, heart, nor sentiment.  No one but you could have invented such a party of pleasure.  If you are unfortunate enough to remind Caroline that it was she who insisted on the excursion, that morning, for her children’s sake, and in behalf of her milk ­she nurses the baby ­you will be overwhelmed by an avalanche of frigid and stinging reproaches.

You bear it all so as “not to turn the milk of a nursing mother, for whose sake you must overlook some little things,” so your atrocious mother-in-law whispers in your ear.

All the furies of Orestes are rankling in your heart.

In reply to the sacramental words pronounced by the officer of the customs, “Have you anything to declare?” your wife says, “I declare a great deal of ill-humor and dust.”

She laughs, the officer laughs, and you feel a desire to tip your family into the Seine.

Unluckily for you, you suddenly remember the joyous and perverse young woman who wore a pink bonnet and who made merry in your tilbury six years before, as you passed this spot on your way to the chop-house on the river’s bank.  What a reminiscence!  Was Madame Schontz anxious about babies, about her bonnet, the lace of which was torn to pieces in the bushes?  No, she had no care for anything whatever, not even for her dignity, for she shocked the rustic police of Vincennes by the somewhat daring freedom of her style of dancing.

You return home, you have frantically hurried your Norman horse, and have neither prevented an indisposition of the animal, nor an indisposition of your wife.

That evening, Caroline has very little milk.  If the baby cries and if your head is split in consequence, it is all your fault, as you preferred the health of your horse to that of your son who was dying of hunger, and of your daughter whose supper has disappeared in a discussion in which your wife was right, as she always is.

“Well, well,” she says, “men are not mothers!”

As you leave the chamber, you hear your mother-in-law consoling her daughter by these terrible words:  “Come, be calm, Caroline:  that’s the way with them all:  they are a selfish lot:  your father was just like that!”