“How well he understand me!” says Caroline to herself.  She opens the door and says:  “Doctor, you did not write down the doses!”

The great physician smiles, bows and slips the twenty franc piece into his pocket; he then leaves Adolphe to his wife, who takes him and says: 

“What is the fact about my condition?  Must I prepare for death?”

“Bah!  He says you’re too healthy!” cries Adolphe, impatiently.

Caroline retires to her sofa to weep.

“What is it, now?”

“So I am to live a long time—­I am in the way—­you don’t love me any more—­I won’t consult that doctor again—­I don’t know why Madame Foullepointe advised me to see him, he told me nothing but trash—­I know better than he what I need!”

“What do you need?”

“Can you ask, ungrateful man?” and Caroline leans her head on Adolphe’s shoulder.

Adolphe, very much alarmed, says to himself:  “The doctor’s right, she may get to be morbidly exacting, and then what will become of me?  Here I am compelled to choose between Caroline’s physical extravagance, or some young cousin or other.”

Meanwhile Caroline sits down and sings one of Schubert’s melodies with all the agitation of a hypochondriac.

PART SECOND

PREFACE

If, reader, you have grasped the intent of this book,—­and infinite honor is done you by the supposition:  the profoundest author does not always comprehend, I may say never comprehends, the different meanings of his book, nor its bearing, nor the good nor the harm it may do—­if, then, you have bestowed some attention upon these little scenes of married life, you have perhaps noticed their color—­

“What color?” some grocer will doubtless ask; “books are bound in
yellow, blue, green, pearl-gray, white—­”

Alas! books possess another color, they are dyed by the author, and certain writers borrow their dye.  Some books let their color come off on to others.  More than this.  Books are dark or fair, light brown or red.  They have a sex, too!  I know of male books, and female books, of books which, sad to say, have no sex, which we hope is not the case with this one, supposing that you do this collection of nosographic sketches the honor of calling it a book.

Thus far, the troubles we have described have been exclusively inflicted by the wife upon the husband.  You have therefore seen only the masculine side of the book.  And if the author really has the sense of hearing for which we give him credit, he has already caught more than one indignant exclamation or remonstrance: 

  “He tells us of nothing but vexations suffered by our husbands, as
  if we didn’t have our petty troubles, too!”

  Oh, women!  You have been heard, for if you do not always make
  yourselves understood, you are always sure to make yourselves
  heard.