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 dies, it will be of good health; you
launched four maledictions upon her, in the name of your sublime young
woman, and four times she blessed you for it. Caroline does not know
that in the depths of your heart there wriggles a little red fish like
a crocodile, concealed beneath conjugal love like the other would be
hid in a basin.

A few days before, your wife had spoken of you in rather equivocal
terms to Madame de Fischtaminel: your fair friend comes to visit her,
and Caroline compromises you by a long and humid gaze; she praises you
and says she neve