"Good heavens," cries Mary, "stop him! Don't you remember? When he gets
to the corner he'll fall down and break both his legs!"
I rush and bellow out to him--
"Descends donc, malheureux; tu vas te casser les deux jambes! Saute!
saute!" ... I cry, holding out my arms. He does not pay the slightest
attention: he reaches the corner, followed low down by Gogo and Mimsey,
who are beside themselves with generous envy and admiration. Stimulated
by their applause, he becomes more foolhardy than ever, and even tries
to be droll, and standing on one leg, sings a little song that begins--
_"Maman m'a donne quat' sous Pour m'en aller a la foire, Non pas pour
manger ni boire, Alais pour m'regaler d'joujoux!"_
Then suddenly down he slips, poor boy, and breaks both his legs below
the knee on an iron rail, whereby he becomes a cripple for life.
All this sad little tragedy of a New-year's Eve plays itself anew. The
sympathetic crowd collects; Mimsey and Gogo weep; the heart-broken
parents arrive, and the good little doctor Larcher; and Mary and I look
on like criminals, so impossible it seems not to feel that we might have
prevented it all!
We two alone are alive and substantial in all this strange world of
shadows, who seem, as far as we can hear and see, no less substantial
and alive than ourselves.
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