r better feelings, who
rekindles your slumbering desires.

You look at Caroline with gloomy despair, and here are the phantom-like
thoughts which tap, with wings of a bat, the beak of a vulture, the body
of a death's-head moth, upon the walls of the palace in which, enkindled
by desire, glows your brain like a lamp of gold:

FIRST STANZA. Ah, dear me, why did I get married? Fatal idea! I allowed
myself to be caught by a small amount of cash. And is it really over?
Cannot I have another wife? Ah, the Turks manage things better! It is
plain enough that the author of the Koran lived in the desert!

SECOND STANZA. My wife is sick, she sometimes coughs in the morning. If
it is the design of Providence to remove her from the world, let it
be speedily done for her sake and for mine. The angel has lived long
enough.

THIRD STANZA. I am a monster! Caroline is the mother of my children!

You go home, that night, in a carriage with your wife: you think her
perfectly horrible: she speaks to you, but you answer in monosyllables.
She says, "What is the matter?" and you answer, "Nothing." She coughs,
you advise her to see the doctor in the morning. Medicine has its
hazards.

FOURTH STANZA. I have been told that a physician, poorly paid by the
heirs of his deceased patient, imprudently exclaimed, "What! they cut
down my bill, when they owe me forty thousand a year." _I_ would not
haggle over fees!

"Caroline," you say to her aloud, "you must take care of yourself; cross
your shawl, be prudent, my darling angel."

Your wife is delighted with you since you seem to take such an interest
in her. While she is preparing to retire, you lie stretched out upon the
sofa. You contemplate the divine apparition which opens to you the ivory
portals of your castles in the air. Delicious ecstasy! 'Tis the sublime
young woman that you see before you! She is as white as the sail of
the treasure-laden galleon as it enters the harbor of Cadiz. Your wife,
happy in your admiration, now understands your former taciturnity. You
still see, with closed eyes, the sublime young woman; she is the burden
of your thoughts, and you say aloud:

FIFTH AND LAST STANZA. Divine! Adorable! Can there be another woman
like her? Rose of Night! Column of ivory! Celestial maiden! Morning and
Evening Star!

Everyone says his prayers; you have said four.

The next morning, your wife is delightful, she coughs no more, she
has no need of a doctor; if she d