after all, if there do arise serious complaints against this institution, it is perhaps because man has no memory excepting for his disasters, that he accuses his wife, as he accuses his life, for marriage is but a life within a life.  Yet people whose habit it is to take their opinions from newspapers would perhaps despise a book in which they see the mania of eclecticism pushed too far; for then they absolutely demand something in the shape of a peroration, it is not hard to find one for them.  And since the words of Napoleon served to start this book, why should it not end as it began?  Before the whole Council of State the First Consul pronounced the following startling phrase, in which he at the same time eulogized and satirized marriage, and summed up the contents of this book: 

“If a man never grew old, I would never wish him to have a wife!”

POSTSCRIPT.

“And so you are going to be married?” asked the duchess of the author who had read his manuscript to her.

She was one of those ladies to whom the author has already paid his respects in the introduction of this work.

“Certainly, madame,” I replied.  “To meet a woman who has courage enough to become mine, would satisfy the wildest of my hopes.”

“Is this resignation or infatuation?”

“That is my affair.”

“Well, sir, as you are doctor of conjugal arts and sciences, allow me to tell you a little Oriental fable, that I read in a certain sheet, which is published annually in the form of an almanac.  At the beginning of the Empire ladies used to play at a game in which no one accepted a present from his or her partner in the game, without saying the word, Diadeste.  A game lasted, as you may well suppose, during a week, and the point was to catch some one receiving some trifle or other without pronouncing the sacramental word.”

“Even a kiss?”

“Oh, I have won the Diadeste twenty times in that way,” she laughingly replied.

“It was, I believe, from the playing of this game, whose origin is Arabian or Chinese, that my apologue takes its point.  But if I tell you,” she went on, putting her finger to her nose, with a charming air of coquetry, “let me contribute it as a finale to your work.”

“This would indeed enrich me.  You have done me so many favors already, that I cannot repay—­”

She smiled slyly, and replied as follows: 

A philosopher had compiled a full account of all the tricks that women could possibly play, and in order to verify it, he always carried it about with him.  One day he found himself in the course of his travels near an encampment of Arabs.  A young woman, who had seated herself under the shade of a palm tree, rose on his approach.  She kindly asked him to rest himself in her tent, and he could not refuse.  Her husband was then absent.  Scarcely had the traveler seated himself on a soft rug, when the graceful hostess offered him fresh dates, and a cup of milk; he could not help observing the rare beauty of her hands as she did so.  But, in order to distract his mind from the sensations roused in him by the fair young Arabian girl, whose charms were most formidable, the sage took his book, and began to read.