Monsieur—­(freeing himself and suddenly rising)—­Give me my boots.

Madame—­(with effusion)—­Oh, thanks, Alfred, my love, you are good, yes, you are good.  Will you have your walking-stick, dear?

Monsieur—­I don’t care.  How much do you want of that abomination—­a franc’s worth, thirty sous’ worth, a louis’ worth?

Madame—­You know very well that I would not make an abuse of it-only a sou’s worth.  I have some sous for mass; here, take one.  Adieu, Alfred; be quick; be quick!

(Exit monsieur.)

Left alone, Madame wafts a kiss in her most tender fashion toward the door Monsieur has just closed behind him, then goes toward the glass and smiles at herself with pleasure.  Then she lights the wax candle in a little candlestick, and quietly makes her way to the kitchen, noiselessly opens a press, takes out three little dessert plates, bordered with gold and ornamented with her initials, next takes from a box lined with white leather, two silver spoons, and, somewhat embarrassed by all this luggage, returns to her bedroom.

Then she pokes the fire, draws a little buhl table close up to the hearth, spreads a white cloth, sets out the plates, puts the spoons by them, and enchanted, impatient, with flushed complexion, leans back in an armchair.  Her little foot rapidly taps the floor, she smiles, pouts—­she is waiting.

At last, after an interval of some minutes, the outer door is heard to close, rapid steps cross the drawingroom, Madame claps her hands and Monsieur comes in.  He does not look very pleased, as he advances holding awkwardly in his left hand a flattened parcel, the contents of which may be guessed.

Madame—­(touching a gold-bordered plate and holding it out to her husband)—­Relieve yourself of it, dear.  Could you not have been quicker?

Monsieur—­Quicker?

Madame—­Oh!  I am not angry with you, that is not meant for a reproach, you are an angel; but it seems to me a century since you started.

Monsieur—­The man was just going to shut his shop up.  My gloves are covered with it . . . it’s sticky . . . it’s horrid, pah! the abomination!  At last I shall have peace and quietness.

Madame—­Oh! no harsh words, they hurt me so.  But look at this pretty little table, do you remember how we supped by the fireside?  Ah! you have forgotten it, a man’s heart has no memory.

Monsieur—­Are you so mad as to imagine that I am going to touch it?  Oh! indeed! that is carrying—­

Madame—­(sadly)—­See what a state you get in over a little favor I ask of you.  If in order to please me you were to overcome a slight repugnance, if you were just to touch this nice, white jelly with you lips, where would be the harm?

Monsieur—­The harm! the harm! it would be ridiculous.  Never.

Madame—­That is the reason?  “It would be absurd.”  It is not from disgust, for there is nothing disgusting there, it is flour and water, nothing more.  It is not then from a dislike, but out of pride that you refuse?