Madame—­Well, I am sure that his mother must have had a longing, or something.

Monsieur—­What can I do to help it, my angel?

Madame—­Nothing at all; but it clearly shows that such things are not to be laughed at; and if I were to tell you that I had a longing—­

Monsieur—­(letting fall his newspaper)—­The devil! a longing for what?

Madame—­Ah! there your nostrils are dilating; you are going to resemble a lion again, and I never shall dare to tell you.  It is so extraordinary, and yet my mother had exactly the same longing.

Monsieur—­Come, tell it me, you see that I am patient.  If it is possible to gratify it, you know that I love you, my . . .  Don’t kiss me on the neck; you will make me jump up to the ceiling, my darling.

Madame—­Repeat those two little words.  I am your darling, then?

Monsieur—­Ha! ha! ha!  She has little fingers which—­ha! ha!—­go into your neck—­ha! ha!—­you will make me break something, nervous as I am.

Madame—­Well, break something.  If one may not touch one’s husband, one may as well go into a convent at once. (She puts her lips to Monsieur’s ear and coquettishly pulls the end of his moustache.) I shall not be happy till I have what I am longing for, and then it would be so kind of you to do it.

Monsieur—­Kind to do what?  Come, dear, explain yourself.

Madame—­You must first of all take off that great, ugly dressing-gown, pull on your boots, put on your hat and go.  Oh, don’t make any faces; if you grumble in the least all the merit of your devotedness will disappear . . . and go to the grocer’s at the corner of the street, a very respectable shop.

Monsieur—­To the grocer’s at ten o’clock at night!  Are you mad?  I will ring for John; it is his business.

Madame (staying his hand) You indiscreet man.  These are our own private affairs; we must not take any one into our confidence.  I will go into your dressing-room to get your things, and you will put your boots on before the fire comfortably . . . to please me, Alfred, my love, my life.  I would give my little finger to have . . .

Monsieur—­To have what, hang it all, what, what, what?

Madame—­(her face alight and fixing her eyes on him)—­I want a sou’s worth of paste.  Had not you guessed it?

Monsieur—­But it is madness, delirium, fol—­

Madame—­I said paste, dearest; only a sou’s worth, wrapped in strong paper.

Monsieur—­No, no.  I am kind-hearted, but I should reproach myself—­

Madame—­(closing his mouth with her little hands)—­Oh, not a word; you are going to utter something naughty.  But when I tell you that I have a mad longing for it, that I love you as I have never loved you yet, that my mother had the same desire—­Oh! my poor mother (she weeps in her hands), if she could only know, if she were not at the other end of France.  You have never cared for my parents; I saw that very well on our wedding-day, and (she sobs) it will be the sorrow of my whole life.