That evening, which chanced to be Christmas Eve, it was infernally cold. The snow was falling in heavy flakes, and, driven by the wind, beat furiously against the window panes. The distant chiming of the bells could just be heard through this heavy and woolly atmosphere. Foot-passengers, wrapped in their cloaks, slipped rapidly along, keeping close to the house and bending their heads to the wintry blast.
Enveloped in my dressing-gown, and tapping with my fingers on the window-panes, I was smiling at the half-frozen passers-by, the north wind, and the snow, with the contented look of a man who is in a warm room and has on his feet comfortable flannel-lined slippers, the soles of which are buried in a thick carpet. At the fireside my wife was cutting out something and smiling at me from time to time; a new book awaited me on the mantelpiece, and the log on the hearth kept shooting out with a hissing sound those little blue flames which invite one to poke it.
“There is nothing that looks more dismal than a man tramping through the snow, is there?” said I to my wife.
“Hush,” said she, lowering the scissors which she held in her hand; and, after smoothing her chin with her fingers, slender, rosy, and plump at their tips, she went on examining the pieces of stuff she had cut out.
“I say that it is ridiculous to go out in the cold when it is so easy to remain at home at one’s own fireside.”
“Hush.”
“But what are you doing that is so important?”
“I—I am cutting out a pair of braces for you,” and she set to work again. But, as in cutting out she kept her head bent, I noticed, on passing behind her, her soft, white neck, which she had left bare that evening by dressing her hair higher than usual. A number of little downy hairs were curling there. This kind of down made me think of those ripe peaches one bites so greedily. I drew near, the better to see, and I kissed the back of my wife’s neck.
“Monsieur!” said Louise, suddenly turning round.
“Madame,” I replied, and we both burst out laughing.
“Christmas Eve,” said I.
“Do you wish to excuse yourself and to go out?”
“Do you mean to complain?”
“Yes, I complain that you are not sufficiently impressed by the fact of its being Christmas Eve. The ding-ding-dong of the bells of Notre Dame fails to move you; and just now when the magic-lantern passed beneath the window, I looked at you while pretending to work, and you were quite calm.”
“I remain calm when the magic-lantern is going by! Ah! my dear, you are very severe on me, and really—”
“Yes, yes, jest about it, but it was none the less true that the recollections of your childhood have failed.”
“Now, my dear, do you want me to leave my boots out on the hearth this evening on going to bed? Do you want me to call in the magic-lantern man, and to look out a big sheet and a candle end for him, as my poor mother used to do? I can still see her as she used to entrust her white sheet to him. ‘Don’t make a hole in it, at least,’ she would say. How we used to clap our hands in the mysterious darkness! I can recall all those joys, my dear, but you know so many other things have happened since then. Other pleasures have effaced those.”
“Yes, I can understand, your bachelor pleasures; and, there, I am sure that this Christmas Eve is the first you have passed by your own fireside, in your dressing-gown, without supper; for you used to sup on Christmas Eve.”
“To sup, to sup.”
“Yes, you supped; I will wager you did.”
“I have supped two or three times, perhaps, with friends, you know; two sous’ worth of roasted chestnuts and—”
“A glass of sugar and water.”
“Oh, pretty nearly so. It was all very simple; as far as I can recollect. We chatted a little and went to bed.”
“And he says that without a smile. You have never breathed a word to me of all these simple pleasures.”
“But, my dear, all that I am telling you is strictly true. I remember that once, however, it was rather lively. It was at Ernest’s, and we had some music. Will you push that log toward me? But, never mind; it will soon be midnight, and that is the hour when reasonable people—”
Louise, rising and throwing her arms around my neck, interrupted me with: “Well, I don’t want to be reasonable, I want to wipe out all your memories of chestnuts and glasses of sugar and water.”
Then pushing me into my dressing-room she locked the door.
“But, my dear, what is the matter with you?” said I through the keyhole.
“I want ten minutes, no more. Your newspaper is on the mantelpiece; you have not read it this evening. There are some matches in the corner.”
I heard a clatter of crockery, a rustling of silk my wife mad?
Louise soon came and opened the door.
“Don’t scold me for having shut you up,” she said, kissing me. “Look how I have beautified myself? Do you recognize the coiffure you are so fond of, the chignon high, and the neck bare? Only as my poor neck is excessively timid, it would have never consented to show itself thus if I had not encouraged it a little by wearing my dress low. And then one must put on full uniform to sup with the authorities.”
“To sup?”
“Certainly, to sup with you; don’t you see my illuminations and this table covered with flowers and a heap of good things? I had got it all ready in the alcove; but you understand that to roll the table up to the fire and make a little toilette, I wanted to be alone. Come, Monsieur, take your place at table. I am as hungry as a hunter. May I offer you a wing of cold chicken?”
“Your idea is charming, but, dear, really I am ashamed; I am in my dressing-gown.”
“Take off your dressing-gown if it incommodes you, Monsieur, but don’t leave this chicken wing on my hands. I want to serve you myself.” And, rising, she turned her sleeves up to the elbow, and placed her table napkin on her arm.
“It is thus that the waiters at the restaurant do it, is it not?”
“Exactly; but, waiter, allow me at least to kiss your hand.”
“I have no time,” said she, laughing, sticking the corkscrew into the neck of the bottle. “Chambertin—it is a pretty name; and then do you remember that before our marriage (how hard this cork is!) you told me that you liked it on account of a poem by Alfred de Musset? which, by the way, you have not let me read yet. Do you see the two little Bohemian glasses which I bought expressly for this evening? We will drink each other’s health in them.”
“And his, too, eh?”
“The heir’s, poor dear love of an heir! I should think so. And then I will put away the two glasses against this time next year; they shall be our Christmas Eve glasses? Every year we will sup like this together, however old we may get.”
“But, my dear, how about the time when we have no longer any teeth?”
“Well, we will sup on good strong soups; it will be very nice, all the same. Another piece, please, with some of the jelly. Thanks.”
As she held out her plate I noticed her arm, the outline of which was lost in lace.
“Why are you looking up my sleeve instead of eating?”
“I am looking at your arm, dear. You are charming, let me tell you, this evening. That coiffure suits you so well, and that dress which I was unacquainted with.”
“Well, when one seeks to make a conquest—”
“How pretty you look, pet!”
“Is it true that you think me charming, pretty, and a pet this evening? Well, then,” lowering her eyes and smiling at her bracelets, “in that case I do not see why—”
“What is it you do not see, dear?”
“I do not see any reason why you should not come and give me just a little kiss.”
And as the kiss was prolonged, she said to me, amid bursts of laughter, her head thrown back, and showing the double row of her white teeth: “I should like some pie; yes, some brie! You will break my Bohemian glass, the result of my economy. You always cause some mishap when you want to kiss me. Do you recollect at Madame de Brill’s ball, two days before our marriage, how you tore my skirt while waltzing in the little drawing-room?”
“Because it is difficult to do two things at once-to keep step and to kiss one’s partner.”
“I recollect, too, when mamma asked how my skirt had got torn, I felt that I was blushing up to my ears. And Madame D., that old jaundiced fairy, who said to me with her Lenten smile, ‘How flushed you are tonight, my dear child!’ I could have strangled her! I said it was the key of the door that had caught it. I looked at you out of the corner of my eye; you were pulling your moustache and seemed greatly annoyed—you are keeping all the truffles for yourself; that is kind—not that one; I want the big black one there in the corner-it was very wrong all the same, for—oh! not quite full—I do not want to be tipsy—for, after all, if we had not been married—and that might have happened, for you know they say that marriages only depend on a thread. Well, if the thread had not been strong enough, I should have remained a maid with a kiss on my shoulder, and a nice thing that would have been.”
“Bah! it does not stain.”
“Yes, Monsieur, it does, I beg your pardon. It stains so much that there are husbands, I believe, who even shed their blood to wash out such little stains.”
“But I was joking, dear. Hang it!—don’t you think—yes, certainly, hang it!”
“Ah! that’s right, I like to see you angry. You are a trifle jealous, dear—oh! that is too bad; I asked you for the big black one, and you have gone and eaten it.”
“I am sorry, dear; I quite forgot about it.”
“It was the same at the Town Hall, where I was obliged to jog your elbow to make you answer ‘Yes’ to the Mayor’s kind words.”
“Kind!”
“Yes, kind. I thought him charming. No one could have been more graceful than he was in addressing me. ‘Mademoiselle, will you consent to accept for your husband that great, ugly fellow standing beside you?’” (Laughing, with her mouth full.) “I wanted to say to him, ‘Let us come to an understanding, Mr. Mayor; there is something to be said on either side.’ I am choking!”—she bursts out laughing—“I was wrong not to impose restrictions. Your health, dear! I am teasing you; it is very stupid. I said ‘Yes’ with all my heart, I can assure you, dear, and I thought the word too weak a one. When I think that all women, even the worst, say that word, I feel ashamed not to have found another.” Holding out her glass: “To our golden wedding—will you touch glasses?”
“And to his baptism, little mamma.”
In a low voice: “Tell me—are you sorry you married me?”
Laughing, “Yes.” Kissing her on the shoulder, “I think I have found the stain again; it was just there.”
“It is two in the morning, the fire is out, and I am a little—you won’t laugh now? Well, I am a little dizzy.”
“A capital pie, eh?”
“A capital pie! We shall have a cup of tea for breakfast tomorrow, shall we not?”
Monsieur—Will you pass me the poker, my dear?
Madame—(humming to herself)—“And yet despite so many fears.” (Spoken.) Here is the poker. (Humming.) “Despite the painful——”
Monsieur—That is by Mehul, is it not, my dear? Ah! that is music—I saw Delaunay Riquier in Joseph. (He hums as he makes up the fire.) “Holy pains.” (Spoken.) One wonders why it does not burn, and, by Jove! it turns out to be green wood. Only he was a little too robust—Riquier. A charming voice, but he is too stout.
Madame—(holding her needlework at a distance, the better to judge of the effect)—Tell me, George, would you have this square red or black? You see, the square near the point. Tell me frankly.
Monsieur—(singing) “If you can repent.” (Spoken without turning his head.) Red, my dear; red. I should not hesitate; I hate black.
Madame—Yes, but if I make that red it will lead me to—(She reflects.)
Monsieur—Well, my dear, if it leads you away, you must hold fast to something to save yourself.
Madame—Come, George, I am speaking seriously. You know that if this little square is red, the point can not remain violet, and I would not change that for anything.
Monsieur—(slowly and seriously)—My dear, will you follow the advice of an irreproachable individual, to whose existence you have linked your fate? Well, make that square pea-green, and so no more about it. Just look whether a coal fire ever looked like that.
Madame—I should only be too well pleased to use up my pea-green wool; I have a quantity of it.
Monsieur—Then where lies the difficulty?
Madame—The difficulty is that pea-green is not sufficiently religious.
Monsieur—Hum! (Humming.) Holy pains! (Spoken.) Will you be kind enough to pass the bellows? Would it be indiscreet to ask why the poor pea-green, which does not look very guilty, has such an evil reputation? You are going in for religious needlework, then, my dear?
Madame—Oh, George! I beg of you to spare me your fun. I have been familiar with it for a long time, you know, and it is horribly disagreeable to me. I am simply making a little mat for the confessional-box of the vicar. There! are you satisfied? You know what it is for, and you must understand that under the present circumstances pea-green would be altogether out of place.
Monsieur—Not the least in the world. I can swear to you that I could just as well confess with pea-green under my feet. It is true that I am naturally of a resolute disposition. Use up your wool; I can assure you that the vicar will accept it all the same. He does not know how to refuse. (He plies the bellows briskly.)
Madame—You are pleased, are you not?
Monsieur—Pleased at what, dear?
Madame—Pleased at having vented your sarcasm, at having passed a jest on one who is absent. Well, I tell you that you are a bad man, seeing that you seek to shake the faith of those about you. My beliefs had need be very fervent, principles strong, and have real virtue, to resist these incessant attacks. Well, why are you looking at me like that?
Monsieur—I want to be converted, my little apostle. You are so pretty when you speak out; your eyes glisten, your voice rings, your gestures—I am sure that you could speak like that for a long time, eh? (He kisses her hand, and takes two of her curls and ties them under hey chin.) You are looking pretty, my pet.
Madame—Oh! you think you have reduced me to silence because you have interrupted me. Ah! there, you have tangled my hair. How provoking you are! It will take me an hour to put it right. You are not satisfied with being a prodigy of impiety, but you must also tangle my hair. Come, hold out your hands and take this skein of wool.
Monsieur—(sitting down on a stool, which he draws as closely as possible to Madame, and holding up his hands) My little Saint John!
Madame—Not so close, George; not so close. (She smiles despite herself.) How silly you are! Please be careful; you will break my wool.
Monsieur—Your religious wool.
Madame—Yes, my religious wool. (She gives him a little pat on the cheek.) Why do you part your hair so much on one side, George? It would suit you much better in the middle, here. Yes, you may kiss me, but gently.
Monsieur—Can you guess what I am thinking of?
Madame—How do you imagine I could guess that?
Monsieur—Well, I am thinking of the barometer which is falling and of the thermometer which is falling too.
Madame—You see, cold weather is coming on and my mat will never be finished. Come, let us make haste.
Monsieur—I was thinking of the thermometer which is falling and of my room which faces due north.
Madame—Did you not choose it yourself? My wool! Good gracious! my wool! Oh! the wicked wretch!
Monsieur—In summer my room with the northern aspect is, no doubt, very pleasant; but when autumn comes, when the wind creeps in, when the rain trickles down the windowpanes, when the fields, the country, seem hidden under a huge veil of sadness, when the spoils of our woodlands strew the earth, when the groves have lost their mystery and the nightingale her voice—oh! then the room with the northern aspect has a very northern aspect, and—
Madame—(continuing to wind her wool)—What nonsense you are talking!
Monsieur—I protest against autumns, that is all. God’s sun is hidden and I seek another. Is not that natural, my little fairhaired saint, my little mystic lamb, my little blessed palmbranch? This new sun I find in you, pet—in your look, in the sweet odor of your person, in the rustling of your skirt, in the down on your neck which one notices by the lamp-light when you bend over the vicar’s mat, in your nostril which expands when my lips approach yours—
Madame—Will you be quiet, George? It is Friday, and Ember week.
Monsieur—And your dispensation? (He kisses her.) Don’t you see that your hand shakes, that you blush, that your heart is beating?
Madame—George, will you have done, sir? (She pulls away her hand, throws herself back in the chair, and avoids her husband’s glance.)
Monsieur—Your poor little heart beats, and it is right, dear; it knows that autumn is the time for confidential chats and evening caresses, the time for kisses. And you know it too, for you defend yourself poorly, and I defy you to look me in the face. Come! look me in the face.
Madame—(she suddenly leans toward hey husband, the ball of wool rolling into the fireplace, the pious task falling to the ground. She takes his head between her hands)—Oh, what a dear, charming husband you would be if you had—
Monsieur—If I had what? Tell me quickly.
Madame—If you had a little religion. I should only ask for such a little at the beginning. It is not very difficult, I can assure you. While, now, you are really too—
Monsieur—Pea-green, eh?
Madame—Yes, pea-green, you great goose. (She laughs frankly.)
Monsieur—(lifting his hands in the air)—Sound trumpets! Madame has laughed; Madame is disarmed. Well, my snow-white lamb, I am going to finish my story; listen properly, there, like that—your hands here, my head so. Hush! don’t laugh. I am speaking seriously. As I was saying to you, the north room is large but cold, poetic but gloomy, and I will add that two are not too many in this wintry season to contend against the rigors of the night. I will further remark that if the sacred ties of marriage have a profoundly social significance, it is—do not interrupt me—at that hour of one’s existence when one shivers on one’s solitary couch.
Madame—You can not be serious.
Monsieur—Well, seriously, I should like the vicar’s mat piously spread upon your bed, to keep us both warm together, this very evening. I wish to return as speedily as possible to the intimacy of conjugal life. Do you hear how the wind blows and whistles through the doors? The fire splutters, and your feet are frozen. (He takes her foot in his hands.)
Madame—But you are taking off my slipper, George.
Monsieur—Do you think, my white lamb, that I am going to leave your poor little foot in that state? Let it stay in my hand to be warmed. Nothing is so cold as silk. What! openwork stockings? My dear, you are rather dainty about your foot-gear for a Friday. Do you know, pet, you can not imagine how gay I wake up when the morning sun shines into my room. You shall see. I am no longer a man; I am a chaffinch; all the joys of spring recur to me. I laugh, I sing, I speechify, I tell tales to make one die of laughter. Sometimes I even dance.
Madame—Come now! I who in the morning like neither noise nor broad daylight—how little all that suits!
Monsieur—(suddenly changing his tone)—Did I say that I liked all that? The morning sun? Never in autumn, my sweet dove, never. I awake, on the contrary full of languor and poesy; I was like that in my very cradle. We will prolong the night, and behind the drawn curtain, behind the closed shutter, we will remain asleep without sleeping. Buried in silence and shadow, delightfully stretched beneath your warm eider-down coverlets, we will slowly enjoy the happiness of being together, and we will wish one another good-morning only on the stroke of noon. You do not like noise, dear. I will not say a word. Not a murmur to disturb your unfinished dream and warn you that you are no longer sleeping; not a breath to recall you to reality; not a movement to rustle the coverings. I will be silent as a shade, motionless as a statue; and if I kiss you—for, after all, I have my weaknesses—it will be done with a thousand precautions, my lips will scarcely brush your sleeping shoulder; and if you quiver with pleasure as you stretch out your arms, if your eye half uncloses at the murmur of my kiss, if your lips smile at me, if I kiss you, it would be because you would like me to, and I shall have nothing to reproach myself with.
Madame—(her eyes half closed, leaning back in hey armchair, her head bent with emotion, she places her hands before his mouth. In a low voice)—Hush, hush! Don’t say that, dear; not another word! If you knew how wrong it was!
Monsieur—Wrong! What is there that is wrong? Is your heart of marble or adamant, that you do not see that I love you, you naughty child? That I hold out my arms to you, that I long to clasp you to my heart, and to fall asleep in your hair? What is there more sacred in the world than to love one’s wife or love one’s husband? (Midnight strikes.)
Madame—(she suddenly changes hey expression at the sound, throws her arms round her husband, and hurriedly kisses him thrice)—You thought I did not love you, eh, dear? Oh, yes! I love you. Great baby! not to see that I was waiting the time.
Monsieur—What time, dear?
Madame—The time. It has struck twelve, see. (She blushes crimson.) Friday is over. (She holds out her hand for him to kiss.)
Monsieur—Are you sure the clock is not five minutes fast, love?
Madame F—For myself, you know, my dear, I fulfil my duties tolerably, still I am not what would be called a devotee. By no means. Pass me your scissors. Thanks.
Madame H—You are quite welcome, dear. What a time those little squares of lace must take. I am like yourself in respect of religion; in the first place, I think that nothing should be overdone. Have you ever-I have never spoken to any one on the subject, but I see your ideas are so in accordance with my own that—
Madame F—Come, speak out, dear; you trust me a little, I hope.
Madame H—Well, then, have you—tell me truly—ever had any doubts?
Madame F—(after reflecting for a moment)—Doubts! No. And you?
Madame H—I have had doubts, which has been a real grief to me. Heavens! how I have wept.
Madame F—I should think so, my poor dear. For my own part, my faith is very strong. These doubts must have made you very unhappy.
Madame H—Terribly so. You know, it seems as if everything failed you; there is a vacancy all about you—I have never spoken about it to my husband, of course—Leon is a jewel of a man, but he will not listen to anything of that kind. I can still see him, the day after our marriage; I was smoothing my hair—broad bands were then worn, you know.
Madame F—Yes, yes; they were charming. You will see that we shall go back to them.
Madame H—I should not be surprised; fashion is a wheel that turns. Leon, then, said to me the day after our wedding: “My dear child, I shall not hinder you going to church, but I beg you, for mercy’s sake, never to say a word to me about it.”
Madame F—Really, Monsieur H. said that to you?
Madame H—Upon my honor. Oh! my husband is all that is most—or, if you prefer it, all that is least—
Madame F—Yes, yes, I understand. That is a grief, you know. Mine is only indifferent. From time to time he says some disagreeable things to me on the question, but I am sure he could be very easily brought back to the right. At the first illness he has, you shall see. When he has only a cold in the head, I notice the change. You have not seen my thimble?
Madame H—Here it is. Do not be too sure of that, dear; men are not to be brought back by going “chk, chk” to them, like little chickens. And then, though I certainly greatly admire the men who observe religious practices, you know me well enough not to doubt that—I think, as I told you, that nothing should be exaggerated. And yourself, pet, should you like to see your husband walking before the banner with a great wax taper in his right hand and a bouquet of flowers in his left?
Madame F—Oh! no, indeed. Why not ask me at once whether I should like to see Leon in a black silk skull cap, with cotton in his ears and a holy water sprinkler in his hand? One has no need to go whining about a church with one’s nose buried in a book to be a pious person; there is a more elevated form of religion, which is that of—of refined people, you know.
Madame H—Ah! when you speak like that, I am of your opinion. I think, for instance, that there is nothing looks finer than a man while the host is being elevated. Arms crossed, no book, head slightly bowed, grave look, frock coat buttoned up. Have you seen Monsieur de P. at mass? How well he looks!
Madame F—He is such a fine man, and, then, he dresses so well. Have you seen him on horseback? Ah! so you have doubts; but tell me what they are, seeing we are indulging in confidences.
Madame H—I can hardly tell you. Doubts, in short; about hell, for instance, I have had horrible doubts. Oh! but do not let us speak about that; I believe it is wrong even to think of it.
Madame F—I have very broad views on that point; I never think about it. Besides, my late confessor helped me. “Do not seek too much,” he always said to me, “do not try to understand that which is unfathomable.” You did not know Father Gideon? He was a jewel of a confessor; I was extremely pleased with him. Not too tedious, always discreet, and, above all, well-bred. He turned monk from a romantic cause—a penitent was madly in love with him.
Madame H—Impossible!
Madame F—Yes, really. What! did you not know about it? The success of the monastery was due to that accident. Before the coming of Father Gideon it vegetated, but on his coming the ladies soon flocked there in crowds. They organized a little guild, entitled “The Ladies of the Agony.” They prayed for the Chinese who had died without confession, and wore little death’s heads in aluminum as sleeve-links. It became very fashionable, as you are aware, and the good fathers organized, in turn, a registry for men servants; and the result is that, from one thing leading to another, the community has become extremely wealthy. I have even heard that one of the most important railway stations in Paris is shortly to be moved, so that the size of their garden can be increased, which is rather restricted at present.
Madame H—As to that, it is natural enough that men should want a place to walk in at home; but what I do not understand is that a woman, however pious she may be, should fall in love with a priest. It is all very well, but that is no longer piety; it is—fanaticism. I venerate priests, I can say so truly, but after all I can not imagine myself—you will laugh at me—ha, ha, ha!
Madame F—Not at all. Ha, ha, ha! what a child you are!
Madame H—(working with great briskness)—Well, I can not imagine that they are men—like the others.
Madame F—(resuming work with equal ardor)—And yet, my dear, people say they are.
Madame H—There are so many false reports set afloat. (A long silence.)
Madame F—(in a discreet tone of voice)—After all, there are priests who have beards—the Capuchins, for instance.
Madame H—Madame de V. has a beard right up to her eyes, so that counts for nothing, dear.
Madame F—That counts for nothing. I do not think so. In the first place, Madame de V.‘s beard is not a perennial beard; her niece told me that she sheds her moustaches every autumn. What can a beard be that can not stand the winter? A mere trifle.
Madame H—A mere trifle that is horribly ugly, my dear.
Madame F—Oh! if Madame de V. had only moustaches to frighten away people, one might still look upon her without sorrow, but—
Madame H—I grant all that. Let us allow that the Countess’s moustache and imperial are a nameless species of growth. I do not attach much importance to the point, you understand. She has a chin of heartbreaking fertility, that is all.
Madame F—To return to what we were saying, how is it that the men who are strongest, most courageous, most manly—soldiers, in fact—are precisely those who have most beard?
Madame H—That is nonsense, for then the pioneers would be braver than the Generals; and, in any case, there is not in France, I am sure, a General with as much beard as a Capuchin. You have never looked at a Capuchin then?
Madame F—Oh, yes! I have looked at one quite close. It is a rather funny story. Fancy Clementine’s cook having a brother a Capuchin—an ex-jeweller, a very decent man. In consequence of misfortunes in business—it was in 1848, business was at a stand-still—in short, he lost his senses—no, he did not lose his senses, but he threw himself into the arms of Heaven.
Madame H—Oh! I never knew that! When? Clementine—
Madame F—I was like you, I would not believe it, but one day Clementine said to me: “Since you will not believe in my Capuchin, come and see me tomorrow about three o’clock; he will be paying a visit to his sister. Don’t have lunch first; we will lunch together.” Very good. I went the next day with Louise, who absolutely insisted upon accompanying me, and I found at Clementine’s five or six ladies installed in the drawing-room and laughing like madcaps. They had all come to see the Capuchin. “Well,” said I, as I went in, when they all began to make signs to me and whisper, “Hush, hush!” He was in the kitchen.
Madame H—And what was he like?
Madame F—Oh! very nice, except his feet; you know how it always gives one a chill to look at their feet; but, in short, he was very amiable. He was sent for into the drawing-room, but he would not take anything except a little biscuit and a glass of water, which took away our appetites. He was very lively; told us that we were coquettes with our little bonnets and our full skirts. He was very funny, always a little bit of the jeweller at the bottom, but with plenty of good nature and frankness. He imitated the buzzing of a fly for us; it was wonderful. He also wanted to show us a little conjuring trick, but he needed two corks for it, and unfortunately his sister could only find one.
Madame H—No matter, I can not understand Clementine engaging a servant like that.
Madame F—Why? The brother is a guarantee.
Madame H—Of morality, I don’t say no; but it seems to me that a girl like that can not be very discreet in her ways.
Madame F—How do you make that out?
Madame H—I don’t know, I can not reason the matter out, but it seems to me that it must be so, that is all,... besides, I should not like to see a monk in my kitchen, close to the soup. Oh, mercy! no!
Madame F—What a child you are!
Madame H—That has nothing to do with religious feelings, my dear; I do not attack any dogma. Ah! if I were to say, for instance—come now, if I were to say, what now?
Madame F—In point of fact, what really is dogma?
Madame H—Well, it is what can not be attacked. Thus, for instance, a thing that is evident, you understand me, is unassailable,... or else it should be assailed,... in short, it can not be attacked. That is why it is monstrous to allow the Jewish religion and the Protestant religion in France, because these religions can be assailed, for they have no dogma. I give you this briefly, but in your prayer-book you will find the list of dogmas. I am a rod of iron as regards dogmas. My husband, who, as I said, has succeeded in inspiring me with doubts on many matters—without imagining it, for he has never required anything of me; I must do him that justice—but who, at any rate, has succeeded in making me neglect many things belonging to religion, such as fasting, vespers, sermons,... confession.
Madame F—Confession! Oh! my dear, I should never have believed that.
Madame H—It is in confidence, dear pet, that I tell you this. You will swear never to speak of it?
Madame F—Confession! Oh! yes, I swear it. Come here, and let me kiss you.
Madame H—You pity me, do you not?
Madame F—I can not pity you too much, for I am absolutely in the same position.
Madame H—You, too! Good heavens! how I love you. What can one do, eh? Must one not introduce some plan of conciliation into the household, sacrifice one’s belief a little to that of one’s husband?
Madame F—No doubt. For instance, how would you have me go to high mass, which is celebrated at my parish church at eleven o’clock exactly? That is just our breakfast time. Can I let my husband breakfast alone? He would never hinder me from going to high mass, he has said so a thousand times, only he has always added, “When you want to go to mass during breakfast time, I only ask one thing—it is to give me notice the day before, so that I may invite some friends to keep me company.”
Madame H—But only fancy, pet, our two husbands could not be more alike if they were brothers. Leon has always said, “My dear little chicken—”
Madame F—Ha! ha! ha!
Madame H—Yes, that is his name for me; you know how lively he is. He has always said to me, then, “My dear little chicken, I am not a man to do violence to your opinions, but in return give way to me as regards some of your pious practices.” I only give you the mere gist of it; it was said with a thousand delicacies, which I suppress. And I have agreed by degrees,... so that, while only paying very little attention to the outward observances of religion, I have remained, as I told you, a bar of iron as regards dogmas. Oh! as to that, I would not give way an inch, a hair-breadth, and Leon is the first to tell me that I am right. After all, dogma is everything; practice, well, what would you? If I could bring Leon round, it would be quite another thing. How glad I am to have spoken to you about all this.
Madame F—Have we not been chattering? But it is half-past five, and I must go and take my cinchona bark. Thirty minutes before meals, it is a sacred duty. Will you come, pet?
Madame H—Stop a moment, I have lost my thimble again and must find it.
When midnight strikes, when the embers die away into ashes, when the lamp burns more feebly and your eyes close in spite of yourself, the best thing to do, dear Madame, is to go to bed.
Get up from your armchair, take off your bracelets, light your rosecolored taper, and proceed slowly, to the soft accompaniment of your trailing skirt, rustling across the carpet, to your dressing-room, that perfumed sanctuary in which your beauty, knowing itself to be alone, raises its veils, indulges in self-examination, revels in itself and reckons up its treasures as a miser does his wealth.
Before the muslin-framed mirror, which reveals all that it sees so well, you pause carelessly and with a smile give one long satisfied look, then with two fingers you withdraw the pin that kept up your hair, and its long, fair tresses unroll and fall in waves, veiling your bare shoulders. With a coquettish hand, the little finger of which is turned up, you caress, as you gather them together, the golden flood of your abundant locks, while with the other you pass through them the tortoiseshell comb that buries itself in the depths of this fair forest and bends with the effort.
Your tresses are so abundant that your little hand can scarcely grasp them. They are so long that your outstretched arm scarcely reaches their extremity. Hence it is not without difficulty that you manage to twist them up and imprison them in your embroidered night-cap.
This first duty accomplished, you turn the silver tap, and the pure and limpid water pours into a large bowl of enamelled porcelain. You throw in a few drops of that fluid which perfumes and softens the skin, and like a nymph in the depths of a quiet wood preparing for the toilet, you remove the drapery that might encumber you.
But what, Madame, you frown? Have I said too much or not enough? Is it not well known that you love cold water; and do you think it is not guessed that at the contact of the dripping sponge you quiver from head to foot?
But what matters it, your toilette for the night is completed, you are fresh, restored, and white as a nun in your embroidered dressing-gown, you dart your bare feet into satin slippers and reenter your bedroom, shivering slightly. To see you walking thus with hurried steps, wrapped tightly in your dressing-gown, and with your pretty head hidden in its nightcap, you might be taken for a little girl leaving the confessional after confessing some terrible sin.
Gaining the bedside, Madame lays aside her slippers, and lightly and without effort, bounds into the depths of the alcove.
However, Monsieur, who was already asleep with his nose on the Moniteur, suddenly wakes up at the movement imparted to the bed.
“I thought that you were in bed already, dear,” he murmurs, falling off to sleep again. “Good-night.”
“If I had been in bed you would have noticed it.” Madame stretches out her feet and moves them about; she seems to be in quest of something. “I am not in such a hurry to go to sleep as you are, thank goodness.”
Monsieur, suddenly and evidently annoyed, says: “But what is the matter, my dear? You fidget and fidget—I want to sleep.” He turns over as he speaks.
“I fidget! I am simply feeling for my hot-water bottle; you are irritating.”
“Your hot-water bottle?” is Monsieur’s reply, with a grunt.
“Certainly, my hot-water bottle, my feet are frozen.” She goes on feeling for it. “You are really very amiable this evening; you began by dozing over the ‘Revue des Deux Mondes’, and I find you snoring over the ‘Moniteur’. In your place I should vary my literature. I am sure you have taken my hot-water bottle.”
“I have been doing wrong. I will subscribe to the ‘Tintamarre’ in future. Come, good-night, my dear.” He turns over. “Hello, your hot-water bottle is right at the bottom of the bed; I can feel it with the tips of my toes.”
“Well, push it up; do you think that I can dive down there after it?”
“Shall I ring for your maid to help you?” He makes a movement of ill-temper, pulls the clothes up to his chin, and buries his head in the pillow. “Goodnight, my dear.”
Madame, somewhat vexed, says: “Good-night, goodnight.”
The respiration of Monsieur grows smooth, and even his brows relax, his forehead becomes calm, he is on the point of losing all consciousness of the realities of this life.
Madame taps lightly on her husband’s shoulder.
“Hum,” growls Monsieur.
Madame taps again.
“Well, what is it?”
Madame, in an angelic tone of voice, “My dear, would you put out the candle?”
Monsieur, without opening his eyes, “The hot-water bottle, the candle, the candle, the hot-water bottle.”
“Good heavens! how irritable you are, Oscar. I will put it out myself. Don’t trouble yourself. You really have a very bad temper, my dear; you are angry, and if you were goaded a little, you would, in five minutes, be capable of anything.”
Monsieur, his voice smothered in the pillow, “No, not at all; I am sleepy, dear, that is all. Good-night, my dear.”
Madame, briskly, “You forget that in domestic life good feeling has for its basis reciprocal consideration.”
“I was wrong—come, good-night.” He raises himself up a little. “Would you like me to kiss you?”
“I don’t want you to, but I permit.” She puts her face toward that of her husband, who kisses her on the forehead. “You are really too good, you have kissed my nightcap.”
Monsieur, smiling, “Your hair smells very nice... You see I am so sleepy. Ah! you have it in little plaits, you are going to wave it to-morrow.”
“To wave it. You were the first to find that that way of dressing it became me, besides, it is the fashion, and tomorrow is my reception day. Come, you irritable man, embrace me once for all and snore at your ease, you are dying to do so.”
She holds her neck toward her husband.
Monsieur, laughing, “In the first place, I never snore. I never joke.” He kisses his wife’s neck, and rests his head on her shoulder.
“Well, what are you doing there?” is her remark.
“I am digesting my kiss.”
Madame affects the lackadaisical, and looks sidewise at her husband with an eye half disarmed. Monsieur sniffs the loved perfume with open nostrils.
After a period of silence he whispers in his wife’s ear, “I am not at all sleepy now, dear. Are your feet still cold? I will find the hot-water bottle.”
“Oh, thanks, put out the light and let us go to sleep; I am quite tired out.”
She turns round by resting her arm on his face.
“No, no, I won’t have you go to sleep with your feet chilled; there is nothing worse. There, there is the hot-water bottle, warm your poor little feet... there... like that.”
“Thanks, I am very comfortable. Good-night, dear, let us go to sleep.”
“Good-night, my dear.”
After a long silence Monsieur turns first on one side and then on the other, and ends by tapping lightly on his wife’s shoulder.
Madame, startled, “What is the matter? Good heavens! how you startled me!”
Monsieur, smiling, “Would you be kind enough to put out the candle?”
“What! is it for that you wake me up in the middle of my sleep? I shall not be able to doze again. You are unbearable.”
“You find me unbearable?” He comes quite close to his wife; “Come, let me explain my idea to you.”
Madame turns round—her eye meets the eye... full of softness.. of her husband. “Dear me,” she says, “you are a perfect tiger.”
Then, putting her mouth to his ear, she murmurs with a smile, “Come, explain your idea, for the sake of peace and quiet.”
Madame, after a very long silence, and half asleep, “Oscar!”
Monsieur, his eyes closed, in a faint voice, “My dear.”
“How about the candle? it is still alight.”
“Ah! the candle. I will put it out. If you were very nice you would give me a share of your hot-water bottle; one of my feet is frozen. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
They clasp hands and fall asleep.