Gaining the bedside, Madame lays aside her slippers, and lightly and without effort, bounds into the depths of the alcove.

However, Monsieur, who was already asleep with his nose on the Moniteur, suddenly wakes up at the movement imparted to the bed.

“I thought that you were in bed already, dear,” he murmurs, falling off to sleep again.  “Good-night.”

“If I had been in bed you would have noticed it.”  Madame stretches out her feet and moves them about; she seems to be in quest of something.  “I am not in such a hurry to go to sleep as you are, thank goodness.”

Monsieur, suddenly and evidently annoyed, says:  “But what is the matter, my dear?  You fidget and fidget—­I want to sleep.”  He turns over as he speaks.

“I fidget!  I am simply feeling for my hot-water bottle; you are irritating.”

“Your hot-water bottle?” is Monsieur’s reply, with a grunt.

“Certainly, my hot-water bottle, my feet are frozen.”  She goes on feeling for it.  “You are really very amiable this evening; you began by dozing over the ‘Revue des Deux Mondes’, and I find you snoring over the ‘Moniteur’.  In your place I should vary my literature.  I am sure you have taken my hot-water bottle.”

“I have been doing wrong.  I will subscribe to the ‘Tintamarre’ in future.  Come, good-night, my dear.”  He turns over.  “Hello, your hot-water bottle is right at the bottom of the bed; I can feel it with the tips of my toes.”

“Well, push it up; do you think that I can dive down there after it?”

“Shall I ring for your maid to help you?” He makes a movement of ill-temper, pulls the clothes up to his chin, and buries his head in the pillow.  “Goodnight, my dear.”

Madame, somewhat vexed, says:  “Good-night, goodnight.”

The respiration of Monsieur grows smooth, and even his brows relax, his forehead becomes calm, he is on the point of losing all consciousness of the realities of this life.

Madame taps lightly on her husband’s shoulder.

“Hum,” growls Monsieur.

Madame taps again.

“Well, what is it?”

Madame, in an angelic tone of voice, “My dear, would you put out the candle?”

Monsieur, without opening his eyes, “The hot-water bottle, the candle, the candle, the hot-water bottle.”

“Good heavens! how irritable you are, Oscar.  I will put it out myself.  Don’t trouble yourself.  You really have a very bad temper, my dear; you are angry, and if you were goaded a little, you would, in five minutes, be capable of anything.”

Monsieur, his voice smothered in the pillow, “No, not at all; I am sleepy, dear, that is all.  Good-night, my dear.”

Madame, briskly, “You forget that in domestic life good feeling has for its basis reciprocal consideration.”

“I was wrong—­come, good-night.”  He raises himself up a little.  “Would you like me to kiss you?”