“I am delighted, madame,” says Caroline, good-naturedly, “that you have brought your father-in-law [profound sensation], but we shall soon see your husband, I trust—­”

“Madame—!”

Everybody listens and looks.  Adolphe becomes the object of every one’s attention; he is literally dumb with amazement:  if he could, he would whisk Caroline off through a trap, as at the theatre.

“This is Monsieur Foullepointe, my husband,” says Madame Foullepointe.

Caroline turns scarlet as she sees her ridiculous blunder, and Adolphe scathes her with a look of thirty-six candlepower.

“You said he was young and fair,” whispers Madame Deschars.  Madame Foullepointe,—­knowing lady that she is,—­boldly stares at the ceiling.

A month after, Madame Foullepointe and Caroline become intimate.  Adolphe, who is taken up with Madame de Fischtaminel, pays no attention to this dangerous friendship, a friendship which will bear its fruits, for—­pray learn this—­

Axiom.—­Women have corrupted more women than men have ever loved.

A SOLO ON THE HEARSE.

After a period, the length of which depends on the strength of Caroline’s principles, she appears to be languishing; and when Adolphe, anxious for decorum’s sake, as he sees her stretched out upon the sofa like a snake in the sun, asks her, “What is the matter, love?  What do you want?”

“I wish I was dead!” she replies.

“Quite a merry and agreeable wish!”

“It isn’t death that frightens me, it’s suffering.”

“I suppose that means that I don’t make you happy!  That’s the way with women!”

Adolphe strides about the room, talking incoherently:  but he is brought to a dead halt by seeing Caroline dry her tears, which are really flowing artistically, in an embroidered handkerchief.

“Do you feel sick?”

“I don’t feel well. [Silence.] I only hope that I shall live long enough to see my daughter married, for I know the meaning, now, of the expression so little understood by the young—­the choice of a husband!  Go to your amusements, Adolphe:  a woman who thinks of the future, a woman who suffers, is not at all diverting:  come, go and have a good time.”

“Where do you feel bad?”

“I don’t feel bad, dear:  I never was better.  I don’t feel anything.  No, really, I am better.  There, leave me to myself.”

This time, being the first, Adolphe goes away almost sad.

A week passes, during which Caroline orders all the servants to conceal from her husband her deplorable situation:  she languishes, she rings when she feels she is going off, she uses a great deal of ether.  The domestics finally acquaint their master with madame’s conjugal heroism, and Adolphe remains at home one evening after dinner, and sees his wife passionately kissing her little Marie.

“Poor child!  I regret the future only for your sake!  What is life, I should like to know?”