A LONGING

Monsieur and madame are quietly sitting together—­The clock has just struck ten—­monsieur is in his dressing-gown and slippers, is leaning back in an armchair and reading the newspaper—­madame is carelessly working squares of laces.

Madame—­Such things have taken place, have they not, dear?

Monsieur—­(without raising his eyes)—­Yes, my dear.

Madame—­There, well I should never have believed it.  But they are monstrous, are they not?

Monsieur—­(without raising his eyes)—­Yes, my dear.

Madame—­Well, and yet, see how strange it is, Louise acknowledged it to me last month, you know; the evening she called for me to go to the perpetual Adoration, and our hour of adoration, as it turned out, by the way, was from six to seven; impossible, too, to change our turn; none of the ladies caring to adore during dinner-time, as is natural enough.  Good heavens, what a rage we were in!  How good God must be to have forgiven you.  Do you remember?

Monsieur—­(continuing to read)—­Yes, dear.

Madame—­Ah! you remember that you said, ‘I don’t care a . . .’  Oh! but I won’t repeat what you said, it is too naughty.  How angry you were!  ’I will go and dine at the restaurant, confound it!’ But you did not say confound, ha! ha! ha!  Well, I loved you just the same at that moment; it vexed me to see you in a rage on God’s account, but for my own part I was pleased; I like to see you in a fury; your nostrils expand, and then your moustache bristles, you put me in mind of a lion, and I have always liked lions.  When I was quite a child at the Zoological Gardens they could not get me away from them; I threw all my sous into their cage for them to buy gingerbread with; it was quite a passion.  Well, to continue my story.  (She looks toward her husband who is still reading, and after a pause,) Is it interesting-that which you are reading?

Monsieur—­(like a man waking up)—­What is it, my dear child?  What I am reading?  Oh, it would scarcely interest you. (With a grimace.) There are Latin phrases, you know, and, besides, I am hoarse.  But I am listening, go, on. (He resumes his newspaper.)

Madame—­Well, to return to the perpetual Adoration, Louise confided to me, under the pledge of secrecy, that she was like me.

Monsieur—­Like you?  What do you mean?

Madame—­Like me; that is plain enough.

Monsieur—­You are talking nonsense, my little angel, follies as great as your chignon.  You women will end by putting pillows into your chignons.

Madame—­(resting her elbows on her husband’s knees)—­But, after all, the instincts, the resemblances we have, must certainly be attributed to something.  Can any one imagine, for instance, that God made your cousin as stupid as he is, and with a head like a pear?

Monsieur—­My cousin! my cousin!  Ferdinand is only a cousin by marriage.  I grant, however, that he is not very bright.