All three of us were together in the drawing-room, and, as you did not stand on ceremony before me, your husband was holding you on his knees and kissing you at great length on the neck, the lips and throat.  Suddenly you exclaimed:  “Oh! the fire!” You had been paying no attention to it, and it was almost out.  A few lingering embers were glowing on the hearth.  Then he rose, ran to the woodbox, from which he dragged two enormous logs with great difficulty, when you came to him with begging lips, murmuring: 

“Kiss me!” He turned his head with difficulty and tried to hold up the logs at the same time.  Then you gently and slowly placed your mouth on that of the poor fellow, who remained with his neck out of joint, his sides twisted, his arms almost dropping off, trembling with fatigue and tired from his desperate effort.  And you kept drawing out this torturing kiss, without seeing or understanding.  Then when you freed him, you began to grumble:  “How badly you kiss!” No wonder!

Oh, take care of that!  We all have this foolish habit, this unconscious need of choosing the most inconvenient moments.  When he is carrying a glass of water, when he is putting on his shoes, when he is tying his scarf—­in short, when he finds himself in any uncomfortable position —­then is the time which we choose for a caress which makes him stop for a whole minute in the middle of a gesture with the sole desire of getting rid of us!

Do not think that this criticism is insignificant.  Love, my dear, is a delicate thing.  The least little thing offends it; know that everything depends on the tact of our caresses.  An ill-placed kiss may do any amount of harm.

Try following my advice.

Your old aunt,
Collette.

This story appeared in the Gaulois in November, 1882, under the pseudonym of “Maufrigneuse.”

THE LEGION OF HONOR

How he got the legion of honor

From the time some people begin to talk they seem to have an overmastering desire or vocation.

Ever since he was a child, M. Caillard had only had one idea in his head —­to wear the ribbon of an order.  When he was still quite a small boy he used to wear a zinc cross of the Legion of Honor pinned on his tunic, just as other children wear a soldier’s cap, and he took his mother’s hand in the street with a proud air, sticking out his little chest with its red ribbon and metal star so that it might show to advantage.

His studies were not a success, and he failed in his examination for Bachelor of Arts; so, not knowing what to do, he married a pretty girl, as he had plenty of money of his own.

They lived in Paris, as many rich middle-class people do, mixing with their own particular set, and proud of knowing a deputy, who might perhaps be a minister some day, and counting two heads of departments among their friends.