ere for hours together.

"Two felons pinioned to the same chain do not find time hang heavy:
for they have their escape to think of. But we have no subject of
conversation; we have long since talked ourselves out. A little while
ago he was so far reduced as to talk politics. But even politics are
exhausted, Napoleon, unfortunately for me, having died at St. Helena, as
is well known.

"Monsieur de Fischtaminel abhors reading. If he sees me with a book, he
comes and says a dozen times an hour--'Nina, dear, haven't you finished
yet?'

"I endeavored to persuade this innocent persecutor to ride out every day
on horseback, and I alleged a consideration usually conclusive with men
of forty years,--his health! But he said that after having been twelve
years on horseback, he felt the need of repose.

"My husband, dear mother, is a man who absorbs you, he uses up the vital
fluid of his neighbor, his ennui is gluttonous: he likes to be amused
by those who call upon us, and, after five years of wedlock, no one
ever comes: none visit us but those whose intentions are evidently
dishonorable for him, and who endeavor, unsuccessfully, to amuse him,
in order to earn the right to weary his wife.

"Monsieur de Fischtaminel, mother, opens the door of my chamber, or of
the room to which I have flown for refuge, five or six times an hour,
and comes up to me in an excited way, and says, 'Well, what are you
doing, my belle?' (the expression in fashion during the Empire) without
perceiving that he is constantly repeating the same phrase, which is to
me like the one pint too much that the executioner formerly poured into
the torture by water.

"Then there's another bore! We can't go to walk any more. A promenade
without conversation, without interest, is impossible. My husband walks
with me for the walk, as if he were alone. I have the fatigue without
the pleasure.

"The interval between getting up and breakfast is employed in my toilet,
in my household duties; and I manage to get through with this part of
the day. But between breakfast and dinner, there is a whole desert to
plough, a waste to traverse. My husband's want of occupation does not
leave me a moment of repose, he overpowers me by his uselessness; his
idle life positively wears me out. His two eyes always open and gazing
at mine compel me to keep them lowered. Then his monotonous remarks:

"'What o'clock is it, love? What are you doing now? What are you
thinking of? What do