eft to break into a gallop and run away.

"No, Adolphe tries to vex me, he's going slower," says the young wife to
her mother. "My dear, go as slow as you like. But I know you'll say I am
extravagant when you see me buying another hat."

Upon this you utter a series of remarks which are lost in the racket
made by the wheels.

"What's the use of replying with reasons that haven't got an ounce of
common-sense?" cries Caroline.

You talk, turning your face to the carriage and then turning back to the
horse, to avoid an accident.

"That's right, run against somebody and tip us over, do, you'll be rid
of us. Adolphe, your son is dying of hunger. See how pale he is!"

"But Caroline," puts in the mother-in-law, "he's doing the best he can."

Nothing annoys you so much as to have your mother-in-law take your
part. She is a hypocrite and is delighted to see you quarreling with
her daughter. Gently and with infinite precaution she throws oil on the
fire.

When you arrive at the barrier, your wife is mute. She says not a word,
she sits with her arms crossed, and will not look at you. You have
neither soul, heart, nor sentiment. No one but you could have invented
such a party of pleasure. If you are unfortunate enough to remind
Caroline that it was she who insisted on the excursion, that morning,
for her children's sake, and in behalf of her milk--she nurses the
baby--you will be overwhelmed by an avalanche of frigid and stinging
reproaches.

You bear it all so as "not to turn the milk of a nursing mother, for
whose sake you must overlook some little things," so your atrocious
mother-in-law whispers in your ear.

All the furies of Orestes are rankling in your heart.

In reply to the sacramental words pronounced by the officer of the
customs, "Have you anything to declare?" your wife says, "I declare a
great deal of ill-humor and dust."

She laughs, the officer laughs, and you feel a desire to tip your family
into the Seine.

Unluckily for you, you suddenly remember the joyous and perverse young
woman who wore a pink bonnet and who made merry in your tilbury six
years before, as you passed this spot on your way to the chop-house on
the river's bank. What a reminiscence! Was Madame Schontz anxious about
babies, about her bonnet, the lace of which was torn to pieces in the
bushes? No, she had no care for anything whatever, not even for her
dignity, for she shocked the rustic police of Vincennes by the somewhat
daring