pressed as people think; moreover the two people who are
causing you tortures are precisely those for whom you wish the most
good.

In the conversations so sweetly familiar which link together the
pleasures of love, and form in some way to lovers the caresses of
thought, your wife often says to your rival:

"Well, I assure you, Auguste, that in any case I should like to see my
poor husband happy; for at bottom he is good; if he were not my
husband, but were only my brother, there are so many things I would do
to please him! He loves me, and--his friendship is irksome to me."

"Yes, he is a fine fellow!"

Then you become an object of respect to the celibate, who would yield
to you all the indemnity possible for the wrong he has done you; but
he is repelled by the disdainful pride which gives a tone to your
whole conversation, and is stamped upon your face.

So that actually, during the first moments of the Minotaur's arrival,
a man is like an actor who feels awkward in a theatre where he is not
accustomed to appear. It is very difficult to bear the affront with
dignity; but though generosity is rare, a model husband is sometimes
found to possess it.

Eventually you are little by little won over by the charming way in
which your wife makes herself agreeable to you. Madame assumes a tone
of friendship which she never henceforth abandons. The pleasant
atmosphere of your home is one of the chief compensations which
renders the Minotaur less odious to a husband. But as it is natural to
man to habituate himself to the hardest conditions, in spite of the
sentiment of outraged nobility which nothing can change, you are
gradually induced by a fascination whose power is constantly around
you, to accept the little amenities of your position.

Suppose that conjugal misfortune has fallen upon an epicure. He
naturally demands the consolations which suit his taste. His sense of
pleasure takes refuge in other gratifications, and forms other habits.
You shape your life in accordance with the enjoyment of other
sensations.

One day, returning from your government office, after lingering for a
long time before the rich and tasteful book shop of Chevet, hovering
in suspense between the hundred francs of expense, and the joys of a
Strasbourg _pate de fois gras_, you are struck dumb on finding this
_pate_ proudly installed on the sideboard of your dining-room. Is this
the vision offered by some gastronomic mirage? In this doubting m