The petty stratagem of her smile, made perfect by
practice, has no meaning in the midst of countenances of noble
expression, of self-possessed women of lofty presence. She is
completely put down, and no one asks her to dance. She tries to force
an expression of pretended satisfaction, but, as she is not satisfied,
she hears people say, "Madame Adolphe is looking very ill to-night."
Women hypocritically ask her if she is indisposed and "Why don't you
dance?" They have a whole catalogue of malicious remarks veneered with
sympathy and electroplated with charity, enough to damn a saint, to
make a monkey serious, and to give the devil the shudders.

You, who are innocently playing cards or walking backwards and
forwards, and so have not seen one of the thousand pin-pricks with
which your wife's self-love has been tattooed, you come and ask her in
a whisper, "What is the matter?"

"Order _my_ carriage!"

This _my_ is the consummation of marriage. For two years she has said
"_my husband's_ carriage," "_the_ carriage," "_our_ carriage," and now
she says "_my_ carriage."

You are in the midst of a game, you say, somebody wants his revenge,
or you must get your money back.

Here, Adolphe, we allow that you have sufficient strength of mind to
say yes, to disappear, and _not_ to order the carriage.

You have a friend, you send him to dance with your wife, for you have
commenced a system of concessions which will ruin you. You already
dimly perceive the advantage of a friend.

Finally, you order the carriage. You wife gets in with concentrated
rage, she hurls herself into a corner, covers her face with her hood,
crosses her arms under her pelisse, and says not a word.

O husbands! Learn this fact; you may, at this fatal moment, repair and
redeem everything: and never does the impetuosity of lovers who have
been caressing each other the whole evening with flaming gaze fail to
do it! Yes, you can bring her home in triumph, she has now nobody but
you, you have one more chance, that of taking your wife by storm! But
no, idiot, stupid and indifferent that you are, you ask her, "What is
the matter?"

Axiom.--A husband should always know what is the matter with his wife,
for she always knows what is not.

"I'm cold," she says.

"The ball was splendid."

"Pooh! nobody of distinction! People have the mania, nowadays, to
invite all Paris into a hole. There were women even on the stairs:
their gowns were horribly smashed,