“You evidently want to get me confused,” she replies, smiling and showing the loveliest teeth in the world.  “I am not strong enough to argue with you, so I beg you to let me go on with Josephine.  What was I saying?”

“That if I get married, I shall have children,” returns the young lady.

“Very well.  I will not represent things to you worse than they are, but it is extremely probable that each child will cost you a tooth.  With every baby I have lost a tooth.”

“Happily,” I remark at this, “this trouble was with you less than petty, it was positively nothing.”—­They were side teeth.—­“But take notice, miss, that this vexation has no absolute, unvarying character as such.  The annoyance depends upon the condition of the tooth.  If the baby causes the loss of a decayed tooth, you are fortunate to have a baby the more and a bad tooth the less.  Don’t let us confound blessings with bothers.  Ah! if you were to lose one of your magnificent front teeth, that would be another thing!  And yet there is many a woman that would give the best tooth in her head for a fine, healthy boy!”

“Well,” resumes Caroline, with animation, “at the risk of destroying your illusions, poor child, I’ll just show you a petty trouble that counts!  Ah, it’s atrocious!  And I won’t leave the subject of dress which this gentleman considers the only subject we women are equal to.”

I protest by a gesture.

“I had been married about two years,” continues Caroline, “and I loved my husband.  I have got over it since and acted differently for his happiness and mine.  I can boast of having one of the happiest homes in Paris.  In short, my dear, I loved the monster, and, even when out in society, saw no one but him.  My husband had already said to me several times, ’My dear, young women never dress well; your mother liked to have you look like a stick,—­she had her reasons for it.  If you care for my advice, take Madame de Fischtaminel for a model:  she is a lady of taste.’  I, unsuspecting creature that I was, saw no perfidy in the recommendation.

“One evening as we returned from a party, he said, ’Did you notice how Madame de Fischtaminel was dressed!’ ‘Yes, very neatly.’  And I said to myself, ’He’s always talking about Madame de Fischtaminel; I must really dress just like her.’  I had noticed the stuff and the make of the dress, and the style of the trimmings.  I was as happy as could be, as I went trotting about town, doing everything I could to obtain the same articles.  I sent for the very same dressmaker.

“‘You work for Madame de Fischtaminel,’ I said.

“‘Yes, madame.’

“’Well, I will employ you as my dressmaker, but on one condition:  you see I have procured the stuff of which her gown is made, and I want you to make me one exactly like it.’

“I confess that I did not at first pay any attention to a rather shrewd smile of the dressmaker, though I saw it and afterwards accounted for it.  ‘So like it,’ I added, ’that you can’t tell them apart.’