ceful fall to a bunch of briar, or a happy turn to a
scarf. As a neat English expression has it, "they fish for compliments,"
and sometimes for better than compliments.

A boy just out of school would discern the motive concealed behind the
willows of these pretexts: but your wife is so well known to you,
and you have so often playfully joked upon her moral and physical
perfections, that you are harsh enough to give your opinion briefly and
conscientiously: you thus force Caroline to put that decisive question,
so cruel to women, even those who have been married twenty years:

"So I don't suit you then?"

Drawn upon the true ground by this inquiry, you bestow upon her such
little compliments as you can spare and which are, as it were, the small
change, the sous, the liards of your purse.

"The best gown you ever wore!" "I never saw you so well dressed." "Blue,
pink, yellow, cherry [take your pick], becomes you charmingly." "Your
head-dress is quite original." "As you go in, every one will admire
you." "You will not only be the prettiest, but the best dressed."
"They'll all be mad not to have your taste." "Beauty is a natural gift:
taste is like intelligence, a thing that we may be proud of."

"Do you think so? Are you in earnest, Adolphe?"

Your wife is coquetting with you. She chooses this moment to force from
you your pretended opinion of one and another of her friends, and to
insinuate the price of the articles of her dress you so much admire.
Nothing is too dear to please you. She sends the cook out of the room.

"Let's go," you say.

She sends the chambermaid out after having dismissed the hair-dresser,
and begins to turn round and round before her glass, showing off to you
her most glorious beauties.

"Let's go," you say.

"You are in a hurry," she returns.

And she goes on exhibiting herself with all her little airs, setting
herself off like a fine peach magnificently exhibited in a fruiterer's
window. But since you have dined rather heartily, you kiss her upon the
forehead merely, not feeling able to countersign your opinions. Caroline
becomes serious.

The carriage waits. All the household looks at Caroline as she goes
out: she is the masterpiece to which all have contributed, and everybody
admires the common work.

Your wife departs highly satisfied with herself, but a good deal
displeased with you. She proceeds loftily to the ball, just as a
picture, caressed by the painter and minutely retouc