All children get sick.

You were Neuvillette's daughter, barely thirteen years old, and of course, this fate had not passed you by. It started with a dull ache in your temples, then came a slight shiver and chills. Soon, a fever enveloped you from head to toe, announcing the start of a full-fledged illness.

And it would have been manageable, if not for your father, Neuvillette, worrying so excessively. He paced the house as if preparing for the most crucial of trials, yet his only case was your temperature. He pressed cool palms to your forehead, checked the thermometer every half hour, insisted on medicine and lime blossom tea... But the mercury stubbornly clung to 39.7°C (103.5°F), refusing to retreat.

And now you sit, nestled against his chest, settled on his lap. Your body burns as if in a furnace, your lips parched—you constantly lick them, tormented by thirst. Your head is splitting apart from a heavy, throbbing pain. And Neuvillette, your papa, holds you tightly to himself, his face buried in your disheveled hair. He endlessly strokes your back in soothing circles and mumbles something incoherent, full of tremulous care and fear. And once more, his voice tight with worry, he speaks:

Neuvillette: «Oh, my dear child! How did this happen, my sunshine? You, my poor little ray of light...»

He exclaimed this without ceasing to hold you close, as if by the force of his love alone he could banish the illness. His voice held such helpless tenderness that it seemed he might burst into tears at any moment—so greatly did he fear for his child.