to be myself—­oh!—­it was a poem that no one but us women can understand!  Finally, the day of my triumph dawned.  My heart beat for joy, as if I were a child, as if I were what we all are at twenty-two.  My husband was going to call for me for a walk in the Tuileries:  he came in, I looked at him radiant with joy, but he took no notice.  Well, I can confess it now, it was one of those frightful disasters—­but I will say nothing about it —­this gentleman here would make fun of me.”

I protest by another movement.

“It was,” she goes on, for a woman never stops till she has told the whole of a thing, “as if I had seen an edifice built by a fairy crumble into ruins.  Adolphe manifested not the slightest surprise.  We got into the carriage.  Adolphe noticed my sadness, and asked me what the matter was:  I replied as we always do when our hearts are wrung by these petty vexations, ‘Oh, nothing!’ Then he took his eye-glass, and stared at the promenaders on the Champs Elysees, for we were to go the rounds of the Champs Elysees, before taking our walk at the Tuileries.  Finally, a fit of impatience seized me.  I felt a slight attack of fever, and when I got home, I composed myself to smile.  ’You haven’t said a word about my dress!’ I muttered.  ’Ah, yes, your gown is somewhat like Madame de Fischtaminel’s.’  He turned on his heel and went away.

“The next day I pouted a little, as you may readily imagine.  Just as we were finishing breakfast by the fire in my room—­I shall never forget it—­the embroideress called to get her money for the neckerchief.  I paid her.  She bowed to my husband as if she knew him.  I ran after her on pretext of getting her to receipt the bill, and said:  ‘You didn’t ask him so much for Madame de Fischtaminel’s kerchief!’ ’I assure you, madame, it’s the same price, the gentleman did not beat me down a mite.’  I returned to my room where I found my husband looking as foolish as—­”

She hesitates and then resumes:  “As a miller just made a bishop.  ’I understand, love, now, that I shall never be anything more than somewhat like Madame de Fischtaminel.’  ’You refer to her neckerchief, I suppose:  well, I did give it to her,—­it was for her birthday.  You see, we were formerly—­’ ’Ah, you were formerly more intimate than you are now!’ Without replying to this, he added, ’But it’s altogether moral.’

“He took his hat and went out, leaving me with this fine declaration of the Rights of Man.  He did not return and came home late at night.  I remained in my chamber and wept like a Magdalen, in the chimney-corner.  You may laugh at me, if you will,” she adds, looking at me, “but I shed tears over my youthful illusions, and I wept, too, for spite, at having been taken for a dupe.  I remembered the dressmaker’s smile!  Ah, that smile reminded me of the smiles of a number of women, who laughed at seeing me so innocent and unsuspecting at Madame de Fischtaminel’s!  I wept sincerely.  Until now I had a right to give my husband credit for many things which he did not possess, but in the existence of which young married women pertinaciously believe.