dolphe, subjects herself to the
pressure of tight corsets. When her daughter laughs, she weeps; when
Caroline wishes her happiness public, she tries to conceal hers. After
dinner, the discerning eye of the co-mother-in-law divines the work of
darkness.

Your wife also is an expectant mother! The news spreads like lightning,
and your oldest college friend says to you laughingly: "Ah! so you are
trying to increase the population again!"

You have some hope in a consultation that is to take place to-morrow.
You, kind-hearted man that you are, you turn red, you hope it is merely
the dropsy; but the doctors confirm the arrival of a _little last one_!

In such circumstances some timorous husbands go to the country or make
a journey to Italy. In short, a strange confusion reigns in your
household; both you and your wife are in a false position.

"Why, you old rogue, you, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" says a
friend to you on the Boulevard.

"Well! do as much if you can," is your angry retort.

"It's as bad as being robbed on the highway!" says your son-in-law's
family. "Robbed on the highway" is a flattering expression for the
mother-in-law.

The family hopes that the child which divides the expected fortune in
three parts, will be, like all old men's children, scrofulous, feeble,
an abortion. Will it be likely to live? The family awaits the delivery
of your wife with an anxiety like that which agitated the house of
Orleans during the confinement of the Duchess de Berri: a second son
would secure the throne to the younger branch without the onerous
conditions of July; Henry V would easily seize the crown. From that
moment the house of Orleans was obliged to play double or quits: the
event gave them the game.

The mother and the daughter are put to bed nine days apart.

Caroline's first child is a pale, cadaverous little girl that will not
live.

Her mother's last child is a splendid boy, weighing twelve pounds, with
two teeth and luxuriant hair.

For sixteen years you have desired a son. This conjugal annoyance is the
only one that makes you beside yourself with joy. For your rejuvenated
wife has attained what must be called the _Indian Summer_ of women;
she nurses, she has a full breast of milk! Her complexion is fresh, her
color is pure pink and white. In her forty-second year, she affects
the young woman, buys little baby stockings, walks about followed by
a nurse, embroiders caps and tries on the cunni