“Adolphe,” she says, “we have a neighbor opposite, the loveliest woman, a brunette—­”

“Oh, yes,” returns Adolphe, “I know her.  She is a friend of Madame de Fischtaminel’s:  Madame Foullepointe, the wife of a broker, a charming man and a good fellow, very fond of his wife:  he’s crazy about her.  His office and rooms are here, in the court, while those on the street are madame’s.  I know of no happier household.  Foullepointe talks about his happiness everywhere, even at the Exchange; he’s really quite tiresome.”

“Well, then, be good enough to present Monsieur and Madame Foullepointe to me.  I should be delighted to learn how she manages to make her husband love her so much:  have they been married long?”

“Five years, just like us.”

“O Adolphe, dear, I am dying to know her:  make us intimately acquainted.  Am I as pretty as she?”

“Well, if I were to meet you at an opera ball, and if you weren’t my wife, I declare, I shouldn’t know which—­”

“You are real sweet to-day.  Don’t forget to invite them to dinner Saturday.”

“I’ll do it to-night.  Foullepointe and I often meet on ’Change.”

“Now,” says Caroline, “this young woman will doubtless tell me what her method of action is.”

Caroline resumes her post of observation.  At about three she looks through the flowers which form as it were a bower at the window, and exclaims, “Two perfect doves!”

For the Saturday in question, Caroline invites Monsieur and Madame Deschars, the worthy Monsieur Fischtaminel, in short, the most virtuous couples of her society.  She has brought out all her resources:  she has ordered the most sumptuous dinner, she has taken the silver out of the chest:  she means to do all honor to the model of wives.

“My dear, you will see to-night,” she says to Madame Deschars, at the moment when all the women are looking at each other in silence, “the most admirable young couple in the world, our opposite neighbors:  a young man of fair complexion, so graceful and with such manners!  His head is like Lord Byron’s, and he’s a real Don Juan, only faithful:  he’s discovered the secret of making love eternal:  I shall perhaps obtain a second crop of it from her example.  Adolphe, when he sees them, will blush at his conduct, and—­”

The servant announces:  “Monsieur and Madame Foullepointe.”

Madame Foullepointe, a pretty brunette, a genuine Parisian, slight and erect in form, the brilliant light of her eye quenched by her long lashes, charmingly dressed, sits down upon the sofa.  Caroline bows to a fat gentleman with thin gray hair, who follows this Paris Andalusian, and who exhibits a face and paunch fit for Silenus, a butter-colored pate, a deceitful, libertine smile upon his big, heavy lips,—­in short, a philosopher!  Caroline looks upon this individual with astonishment.

“Monsieur Foullepointe, my dear,” says Adolphe, presenting the worthy quinquagenarian.