Our children are the marrow of our bones, you see.−−−My poor Eustache! thou art so fair!−−If you only knew how nice he is! yesterday he said to me: 'I want to be a gendarme, that I do.'
Nos enfants, voyez-vous, c’est la moelle de nos os. – Mon pauvre Eustache ! tu es si beau, toi ! Si vous saviez comme il est gentil !