I was half crying with joy to reach the land of my true dreams again, to feel at home once more—chez moi! chez moi!
La Mère François sat peeling potatoes at the door of her loge; she was singing a little song about cinq sous, sinq sous, pour monter notre ménage. I had forgotten it, but it all came back now.
[Illustration: "CINQ SOUS, CINQ SOUS, POUR MONTER NOTRE MÉNAGE.">[
The facetious postman, Yverdon, went in at the gate of my old garden; the bell rang as he pushed it, and I followed him.
Under the apple-tree, which was putting forth shoots of blossom in profusion, sat my mother and Monsieur le Major. My mother took the letter from the postman's hand as he said, "Pour Vous? Oh yes, Madame Pasquier, God sev ze Kveen!" and paid the postage. It was from Colonel Ibbetson, then in Ireland, and not yet a colonel.
Médor lay snoring on the grass, and Gogo and Mimsey were looking at the pictures in the musée des familles.
In a garden chair lolled Dr. Seraskier, apparently asleep, with his long porcelain pipe across his knees.
Madame Seraskier, in a yellow nankeen gown with gigot sleeves, was cutting curl-papers out of the Constitutionnel.
I gazed on them all with unutterable tenderness. I was gazing on them perhaps for the last time.
I called out to them by name.