rd. Six weeks after, Caroline may prove to
you that she has quite sense enough to _minotaurize_ you without your
perceiving it.

Frightened at such a prospect, you make use of all the eloquent phrases
to gild this pill. In short, you find the means of flattering Caroline's
various self-loves, for:

Axiom.--A married woman has several self-loves.

You say that you are her best friend, the only one well situated to
enlighten her; the more careful you are, the more watchful and puzzled
she is. At this moment she has plenty of sense.

You ask your dear Caroline, whose waist you clasp, how she, who is so
brilliant when alone with you, who retorts so charmingly (you remind
her of sallies that she has never made, which you put in her mouth, and,
which she smilingly accepts), how she can say this, that, and the other,
in society. She is, doubtless, like many ladies, timid in company.

"I know," you say, "many very distinguished men who are just the same."

You cite the case of some who are admirable tea-party oracles, but who
cannot utter half a dozen sentences in the tribune. Caroline should
keep watch over herself; you vaunt silence as the surest method of being
witty. In society, a good listener is highly prized.

You have broken the ice, though you have not even scratched its glossy
surface: you have placed your hand upon the croup of the most ferocious
and savage, the most wakeful and clear-sighted, the most restless, the
swiftest, the most jealous, the most ardent and violent, the simplest
and most elegant, the most unreasonable, the most watchful chimera of
the moral world--THE VANITY OF A WOMAN!

Caroline clasps you in her arms with a saintly embrace, thanks you for
your advice, and loves you the more for it; she wishes to be beholden
to you for everything, even for her intellect; she may be a dunce, but,
what is better than saying fine things, she knows how to do them! But
she desires also to be your pride! It is not a question of taste in
dress, of elegance and beauty; she wishes to make you proud of her
intelligence. You are the luckiest of men in having successfully managed
to escape from this first dangerous pass in conjugal life.

"We are going this evening to Madame Deschars', where they never know
what to do to amuse themselves; they play all sorts of forfeit games on
account of a troop of young women and girls there; you shall see!" she
says.

You are so happy at this turn of affairs, that you hu