I get up in the early dawn, while he is still sleeping, and, without disturbing him, pass into the dressing-room, where, profiting by my mother’s experience, I remove the traces of sleep by bathing in cold water.  For during sleep the skin, being less active, does not perform its functions adequately; it becomes warm and covered with a sort of mist or atmosphere of sticky matter, visible to the eye.  From a sponge-bath a woman issues ten years younger, and this, perhaps, is the interpretation of the myth of Venus rising from the sea.  So the cold water restores to me the saucy charm of dawn, and, having combed and scented my hair and made a most fastidious toilet, I glide back, snake-like, in order that my master may find me, dainty as a spring morning, at his wakening.  He is charmed with this freshness, as of a newly-opened flower, without having the least idea how it is produced.

The regular toilet of the day is a matter for my maid, and this takes place later in a larger room, set aside for the purpose.  As you may suppose, there is also a toilet for going to bed.  Three times a day, you see, or it may be four, do I array myself for the delight of my husband; which, again, dear one, is suggestive of certain ancient myths.

But our work is not all play.  We take a great deal of interest in our flowers, in the beauties of the hothouse, and in our trees.  We give ourselves in all seriousness to horticulture, and embosom the chalet in flowers, of which we are passionately fond.  Our lawns are always green, our shrubberies as well tended as those of a millionaire.  And nothing I assure you, can match the beauty of our walled garden.  We are regular gluttons over our fruit, and watch with tender interest our Montreuil peaches, our hotbeds, our laden trellises, and pyramidal pear-trees.

But lest these rural pursuits should fail to satisfy my beloved’s mind, I have advised him to finish, in the quiet of this retreat, some plays which were begun in his starvation days, and which are really very fine.  This is the only kind of literary work which can be done in odd moments, for it requires long intervals of reflection, and does not demand the elaborate pruning essential to a finished style.  One can’t make a task-work of dialogue; there must be biting touches, summings-up, and flashes of wit, which are the blossoms of the mind, and come rather by inspiration than reflection.  This sort of intellectual sport is very much in my line.  I assist Gaston in his work, and in this way manage to accompany him even in the boldest flights of his imagination.  Do you see now how it is that my winter evenings never drag?