ected her. If you love her, why, love
her: but if you don't love her, and nevertheless desire to preserve
the mother of your children, the resolution to come to is a matter of
hygiene, but it can only proceed from you!"

"How well he understand me!" says Caroline to herself. She opens the
door and says: "Doctor, you did not write down the doses!"

The great physician smiles, bows and slips the twenty franc piece into
his pocket; he then leaves Adolphe to his wife, who takes him and
says:

"What is the fact about my condition? Must I prepare for death?"

"Bah! He says you're too healthy!" cries Adolphe, impatiently.

Caroline retires to her sofa to weep.

"What is it, now?"

"So I am to live a long time--I am in the way--you don't love me any
more--I won't consult that doctor again--I don't know why Madame
Foullepointe advised me to see him, he told me nothing but trash--I
know better than he what I need!"

"What do you need?"

"Can you ask, ungrateful man?" and Caroline leans her head on
Adolphe's shoulder.

Adolphe, very much alarmed, says to himself: "The doctor's right, she
may get to be morbidly exacting, and then what will become of me? Here
I am compelled to choose between Caroline's physical extravagance, or
some young cousin or other."

Meanwhile Caroline sits down and sings one of Schubert's melodies with
all the agitation of a hypochondriac.

PART SECOND

PREFACE

If, reader, you have grasped the intent of this book,--and
infinite honor is done you by the supposition: the profoundest
author does not always comprehend, I may say never comprehends,
the different meanings of his book, nor its bearing, nor the good
nor the harm it may do--if, then, you have bestowed some attention
upon these little scenes of married life, you have perhaps noticed
their color--

"What color?" some grocer will doubtless ask; "books are bound in
yellow, blue, green, pearl-gray, white--"

Alas! books possess another color, they are dyed by the author,
and certain writers borrow their dye. Some books let their color
come off on to others. More than this. Books are dark or fair,
light brown or red. They have a sex, too! I know of male books,
and female books, of books which, sad to say, have no sex, which
we hope is not the case with this one, supposing that you do this
collection of nosographic sketches the honor