It would therefore be signally unjust to lay upon you alone the reproaches that every being brought under the yoke (conjugium) has the right to heap upon that necessary, sacred, useful, eminently conservative institution,—­one, however, that is often somewhat of an encumbrance, and tight about the joints, though sometimes it is also too loose there.

  I will go further!  Such partiality would be a piece of idiocy.

A man,—­not a writer, for in a writer there are many men,—­an author, rather, should resemble Janus, see behind and before, become a spy, examine an idea in all its phases, delve alternately into the soul of Alceste and into that of Philaenete, know everything though he does not tell it, never be tiresome, and—­

  We will not conclude this programme, for we should tell the whole,
  and that would be frightful for those who reflect upon the present
  condition of literature.

Furthermore, an author who speaks for himself in the middle of his book, resembles the old fellow in “The Speaking Picture,” when he puts his face in the hole cut in the painting.  The author does not forget that in the Chamber, no one can take the floor between two votes.  Enough, therefore!

  Here follows the female portion of the book:  for, to resemble
  marriage perfectly, it ought to be more or less hermaphroditic.

PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE

HUSBANDS DURING THE SECOND MONTH.

Two young married women, Caroline and Stephanie, who had been early friends at M’lle Machefer’s boarding school, one of the most celebrated educational institutions in the Faubourg St. Honore, met at a ball given by Madame de Fischtaminel, and the following conversation took place in a window-seat in the boudoir.

It was so hot that a man had acted upon the idea of going to breathe the fresh night air, some time before the two young women.  He had placed himself in the angle of the balcony, and, as there were many flowers before the window, the two friends thought themselves alone.  This man was the author’s best friend.

One of the two ladies, standing at the corner of the embrasure, kept watch by looking at the boudoir and the parlors.  The other had so placed herself as not to be in the draft, which was nevertheless tempered by the muslin and silk curtains.

The boudoir was empty, the ball was just beginning, the gaming-tables were open, offering their green cloths and their packs of cards still compressed in the frail case placed upon them by the customs office.  The second quadrille was in progress.

All who go to balls will remember that phase of large parties when the guests are not yet all arrived, but when the rooms are already filled —­a moment which gives the mistress of the house a transitory pang of terror.  This moment is, other points of comparison apart, like that which decides a victory or the loss of a battle.