“I don’t want you to, but I permit.”  She puts her face toward that of her husband, who kisses her on the forehead.  “You are really too good, you have kissed my nightcap.”

Monsieur, smiling, “Your hair smells very nice . . .  You see I am so sleepy.  Ah! you have it in little plaits, you are going to wave it to-morrow.”

“To wave it.  You were the first to find that that way of dressing it became me, besides, it is the fashion, and tomorrow is my reception day.  Come, you irritable man, embrace me once for all and snore at your ease, you are dying to do so.”

She holds her neck toward her husband.

Monsieur, laughing, “In the first place, I never snore.  I never joke.”  He kisses his wife’s neck, and rests his head on her shoulder.

“Well, what are you doing there?” is her remark.

“I am digesting my kiss.”

Madame affects the lackadaisical, and looks sidewise at her husband with an eye half disarmed.  Monsieur sniffs the loved perfume with open nostrils.

After a period of silence he whispers in his wife’s ear, “I am not at all sleepy now, dear.  Are your feet still cold?  I will find the hot-water bottle.”

“Oh, thanks, put out the light and let us go to sleep; I am quite tired out.”

She turns round by resting her arm on his face.

“No, no, I won’t have you go to sleep with your feet chilled; there is nothing worse.  There, there is the hot-water bottle, warm your poor little feet . . . there . . . like that.”

“Thanks, I am very comfortable.  Good-night, dear, let us go to sleep.”

“Good-night, my dear.”

After a long silence Monsieur turns first on one side and then on the other, and ends by tapping lightly on his wife’s shoulder.

Madame, startled, “What is the matter?  Good heavens! how you startled me!”

Monsieur, smiling, “Would you be kind enough to put out the candle?”

“What! is it for that you wake me up in the middle of my sleep?  I shall not be able to doze again.  You are unbearable.”

“You find me unbearable?” He comes quite close to his wife; “Come, let me explain my idea to you.”

Madame turns round—­her eye meets the eye . . . full of softness . . of her husband.  “Dear me,” she says, “you are a perfect tiger.”

Then, putting her mouth to his ear, she murmurs with a smile, “Come, explain your idea, for the sake of peace and quiet.”

Madame, after a very long silence, and half asleep, “Oscar!”

Monsieur, his eyes closed, in a faint voice, “My dear.”

“How about the candle? it is still alight.”

“Ah! the candle.  I will put it out.  If you were very nice you would give me a share of your hot-water bottle; one of my feet is frozen.  Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

They clasp hands and fall asleep.

CHAPTER XXI