“Well,” she resumed, after we had exchanged our observations on this point, “this young old man, this universal Amadis, whom we call among ourselves Chevalier Petit-Bon-Homme-vil-encore, became the object of my admiration.  I made him a few of those advances which never compromise a woman; I spoke of the good taste exhibited in his latest waistcoats and in his canes, and he thought me a lady of extreme amiability.  I thought him a chevalier of extreme youth; he called upon me; I put on a number of little airs, and pretended to be unhappy at home, and to have deep sorrows.  You know what a woman means when she talks of her sorrows, and complains that she is not understood.  The old ape replied much better than a young man would, and I had the greatest difficulty in keeping a straight face while I listened to him.

“’Ah, that’s the way with husbands, they pursue the very worst polity, they respect their wives, and, sooner or later, every woman is enraged at finding herself respected, and divines the secret education to which she is entitled.  Once married, you ought not to live like a little school-girl, etc.’

“As he spoke, he leaned over me, he squirmed, he was horrible to see.  He looked like a wooden Nuremberg doll, he stuck out his chin, he stuck out his chair, he stuck out his hand—­in short, after a variety of marches and countermarches, of declarations that were perfectly angelic—­”

“No!”

“Yes. Petit-Bon-Homme-vil-encore had abandoned the classicism of his youth for the romanticism now in fashion:  he spoke of the soul, of angels, of adoration, of submission, he became ethereal, and of the darkest blue.  He took me to the opera, and handed me to my carriage.  This old young man went when I went, his waistcoats multiplied, he compressed his waist, he excited his horse to a gallop in order to catch and accompany my carriage to the promenade:  he compromised me with the grace of a young collegian, and was considered madly in love with me.  I was steadfastly cruel, but accepted his arm and his bouquets.  We were talked about.  I was delighted, and managed before long to be surprised by my husband, with the viscount on the sofa in my boudoir, holding my hands in his, while I listened in a sort of external ecstasy.  It is incredible how much a desire for vengeance will induce us to put up with!  I appeared vexed at the entrance of my husband, who made a scene on the viscount’s departure:  ’I assure you, sir,’ said I, after having listened to his reproaches, ’that it’s altogether moral.’  My husband saw the point and went no more to Madame de Fischtaminel’s.  I received Monsieur de Lustrac no more, either.”

“But,” I interrupted, “this Lustrac that you, like many others, take for a bachelor, is a widower, and childless.”

“Really!”