t was light, the doctor came
again, who found his patient very ill, and said to me:

"'Your wife, Monsieur....'

"'She is not my wife,' I interrupted him.

"'Very well then, your mistress; it does not matter to me.'

"He told me what must be done for her, what her diet must be, and then
wrote a prescription.

"What was I to do? Could I send the poor creature to the hospital? I
should have been looked upon as a brute in the house and in all the
neighborhood, and so I kept her in my rooms, and she had my bed for six
weeks.

"I sent the child to some peasants at Poissy to be taken care of, and she
still costs me fifty francs[9] a month, for as I had paid at first, I
shall be obliged to go on paying as long as I live, and later on, she
will believe that I am her father. But to crown my misfortunes, when the
girl had recovered ... I found that she was in love with me, madly in
love with me, the baggage!"

[Footnote 9: L2]

"Well?"

"Well, she had grown as thin as a homeless cat, and I turned the skeleton
out of doors, but she watches for me in the streets, hides herself, so
that she may see me pass, stops me in the evening when I go out, in order
to kiss my hand, and, in fact, worries me enough to drive me mad; and
that is why I never keep Christmas eve now."

WORDS OF LOVE

Sunday.--

You do not write to me, I never see you, you never come, so I must
suppose that you have ceased to love me. But why? What have I done? Pray
tell me, my own dear love. I love you so much, so dearly! I should like
always to have you near me, to kiss you all day while I called you every
tender name that I could think of. I adore you, I adore you, I adore you,
my beautiful cock.--Your affectionate hen,

SOPHIE.

* * * * *

Monday.--

My dear friend,

You will absolutely understand nothing of what I am going to say to you,
but that does not matter, and if my letter happens to be read by another
woman, it may be profitable to her.

Had you been deaf and dumb, I should no doubt have loved you for a very
long time, and the cause of what has happened is, that you can talk; that
is all.

In love, you see, dreams are always made to sing, but in order that they
might do so, they must not be interrupted, and when one talks between two
kisses, one always interrupts that frenzied dream which our souls indulge
in, unless they utter sublime words; and sublime words do not come out of
the little