Madame—­But she thinks she is affording you pleasure.  She is a charming friend.  As for me, I like her because she always speaks well of you.  If you had been hidden in that cabinet during her visit, you could not have helped blushing. (He shrugs his shoulders.) “Your husband is so amiable,” she said to me, “so cheery, so witty.  Try to bring him; it is an honor to have him.”  I said, “Certainly,” but without meaning it, you know.  But I don’t care about it at all.  It is not so very amusing at Madame de Lyr’s.  She always invites such a number of serious people.  No doubt they are influential people, and may prove useful, but what does that matter to me?  Come to dinner.  You know that there is a bottle left of that famous Pomard; I have kept it for your partridge.  You can not imagine what pleasure I feel in seeing you eat a partridge.  You eat it with such a gusto.  You are a glutton, my dear. (She takes his arm.) Come, I can hear your rascal of a son getting impatient in the dining-room.

Monsieur—­(with a preoccupied air)—­Hum! and when is it?

Madame—­When is what?

Monsieur—­The party, of course.

Madame—­Ah! you mean the ball—­I was not thinking of it.  Madame de Lyr’s ball.  Why do you ask me that, since we are not going?  Let us make haste, dinner is getting cold . . . .  This evening.

Monsieur—­(stopping short)—­What! this party is a ball, and this ball is for this evening.  But, hang it! people don’t invite you to a ball like that.  They always give notice some time beforehand.

Madame—­But she sent us an invitation a week ago, though I don’t know what became of the card.  I forgot to show it to you.

Monsieur—­You forgot! you forgot!

Madame—­Well, it is all for the best; I know you would have been sulky all the week after.  Come to dinner.

They sat down to table.  The cloth was white, the cutlery bright, the oysters fresh; the partridge, cooked to perfection, exhaled a delightful odor.  Madame was charming, and laughed at everything.  Monsieur unbent his brows and stretched himself on the chair.

Monsieur—­This Pomard is very good.  Won’t you have some, little dear?

Madame—­Yes, your little dear will. (She pushes forward her glass with a coquettish movement.)

Monsieur—­Ah! you have put on your Louis Seize ring.  It is a very pretty ring.

Madame—­(putting her hand under her husband’s nose)—­Yes; but look—­see, there is a little bit coming off.

Monsieur—­(kissing his wife’s hand)—­Where is the little bit?

Madame—­(smiling)—­You jest at everything.  I am speaking seriously.  There—­look—­it is plain enough! (They draw near once another and bend their heads together to see it.) Don’t you see it? (She points out a spot on the ring with a rosy and slender finger.) There! do you see now—­there?

Monsieur—­That little pearl which—­What on earth have you been putting on your hair, my dear?  It smells very nice—­You must send it to the jeweller.  The scent is exquisite.  Curls don’t become you badly.