d--literary touch again!--into the secrets of my bedroom. The
veriest trifles connected with the worship of my heart partake of its
sacred character. This is not jealousy; it is self-respect. Thus my
room is done out with all the care a young girl in love bestows on her
person, and with the precision of an old maid. My dressing-room is no
chaos of litter; on the contrary, it makes a charming boudoir. My keen
eye has foreseen all contingencies. At whatever hour the lord and master
enters, he will find nothing to distress, surprise, or shock him; he is
greeted by flowers, scents, and everything that can please the eye.

I get up in the early dawn, while he is still sleeping, and, without
disturbing him, pass into the dressing-room, where, profiting by my
mother's experience, I remove the traces of sleep by bathing in cold
water. For during sleep the skin, being less active, does not perform
its functions adequately; it becomes warm and covered with a sort
of mist or atmosphere of sticky matter, visible to the eye. From a
sponge-bath a woman issues ten years younger, and this, perhaps, is the
interpretation of the myth of Venus rising from the sea. So the cold
water restores to me the saucy charm of dawn, and, having combed
and scented my hair and made a most fastidious toilet, I glide back,
snake-like, in order that my master may find me, dainty as a spring
morning, at his wakening. He is charmed with this freshness, as of a
newly-opened flower, without having the least idea how it is produced.

The regular toilet of the day is a matter for my maid, and this takes
place later in a larger room, set aside for the purpose. As you may
suppose, there is also a toilet for going to bed. Three times a day, you
see, or it may be four, do I array myself for the delight of my husband;
which, again, dear one, is suggestive of certain ancient myths.

But our work is not all play. We take a great deal of interest in our
flowers, in the beauties of the hothouse, and in our trees. We give
ourselves in all seriousness to horticulture, and embosom the chalet in
flowers, of which we are passionately fond. Our lawns are always green,
our shrubberies as well tended as those of a millionaire. And nothing
I assure you, can match the beauty of our walled garden. We are regular
gluttons over our fruit, and watch with tender interest our Montreuil
peaches, our hotbeds, our laden trellises, and pyramidal pear-trees.

But lest these rural pursuits