Monsieur—­(suddenly changing his tone)—­Did I say that I liked all that?  The morning sun?  Never in autumn, my sweet dove, never.  I awake, on the contrary full of languor and poesy; I was like that in my very cradle.  We will prolong the night, and behind the drawn curtain, behind the closed shutter, we will remain asleep without sleeping.  Buried in silence and shadow, delightfully stretched beneath your warm eider-down coverlets, we will slowly enjoy the happiness of being together, and we will wish one another good-morning only on the stroke of noon.  You do not like noise, dear.  I will not say a word.  Not a murmur to disturb your unfinished dream and warn you that you are no longer sleeping; not a breath to recall you to reality; not a movement to rustle the coverings.  I will be silent as a shade, motionless as a statue; and if I kiss you—­for, after all, I have my weaknesses—­it will be done with a thousand precautions, my lips will scarcely brush your sleeping shoulder; and if you quiver with pleasure as you stretch out your arms, if your eye half uncloses at the murmur of my kiss, if your lips smile at me, if I kiss you, it would be because you would like me to, and I shall have nothing to reproach myself with.

Madame—­(her eyes half closed, leaning back in hey armchair, her head bent with emotion, she places her hands before his mouth.  In a low voice)—­Hush, hush!  Don’t say that, dear; not another word!  If you knew how wrong it was!

Monsieur—­Wrong!  What is there that is wrong?  Is your heart of marble or adamant, that you do not see that I love you, you naughty child?  That I hold out my arms to you, that I long to clasp you to my heart, and to fall asleep in your hair?  What is there more sacred in the world than to love one’s wife or love one’s husband? (Midnight strikes.)

Madame—­(she suddenly changes hey expression at the sound, throws her arms round her husband, and hurriedly kisses him thrice)—­You thought I did not love you, eh, dear?  Oh, yes!  I love you.  Great baby! not to see that I was waiting the time.

Monsieur—­What time, dear?

Madame—­The time.  It has struck twelve, see. (She blushes crimson.)
Friday is over. (She holds out her hand for him to kiss.)

Monsieur—­Are you sure the clock is not five minutes fast, love?

CHAPTER XIX

A LITTLE CHAT

Madame F-----madame H------

   (These ladies are seated at needlework as they talk.)

Madame F—­For myself, you know, my dear, I fulfil my duties tolerably, still I am not what would be called a devotee.  By no means.  Pass me your scissors.  Thanks.

Madame H—­You are quite welcome, dear.  What a time those little squares of lace must take.  I am like yourself in respect of religion; in the first place, I think that nothing should be overdone.  Have you ever-I have never spoken to any one on the subject, but I see your ideas are so in accordance with my own that—­