s, Baroness, I have found my apple, but I am horribly nervous. Are
Minerva and Juno dressed? Oh! I am nervous to a degree you have no idea
of."

"Yes, yes, every one is ready; send word to the company in the
drawing-room. My poor heart throbs like to burst, Captain."

CHAPTER IX. HUSBAND AND WIFE MY DEAR SISTERS:

Marriage, as it is now understood, is not exactly conducive to love. In
this I do not think that I am stating an anomaly. Love in marriage is,
as a rule, too much at his ease; he stretches himself with too
great listlessness in armchairs too well cushioned. He assumes the
unconstrained habits of dressing-gown and slippers; his digestion goes
wrong, his appetite fails and of an evening, in the too-relaxing warmth
of a nest, made for him, he yawns over his newspaper, goes to sleep,
snores, and pines away. It is all very well, my sisters, to say, "But
not at all--but how can it be, Father Z.?--you know nothing about it,
reverend father."

I maintain that things are as I have stated, and that at heart you are
absolutely of my opinion. Yes, your poor heart has suffered very often;
there are nights during which you have wept, poor angel, vainly awaiting
the dream of the evening before.

"Alas!" you say, "is it then all over? One summer's day, then thirty
years of autumn, to me, who am so fond of sunshine." That is what you
have thought.

But you say nothing, not knowing what you should say. Lacking
self-confidence and ignorant of yourself, you have made it a virtue to
keep silence and not wake your husband while he sleeps; you have got
into the habit of walking on the tips of your toes so as not to disturb
the household, and your husband, in the midst of this refreshing
half-sleep, has begun to yawn luxuriously; then he has gone out to his
club, where he has been received like the prodigal son, while you, poor
poet without pen or ink, have consoled yourself by watching your sisters
follow the same road as yourself.

You have, all of you, ladies, your pockets full of manuscripts, charming
poems, delightful romances; it is a reader who is lacking to you,
and your husband takes up his hat and stick at the very sight of your
handwriting; he firmly believes that there are no more romances except
those already in print. From having read so many, he considers that no
more can be written.

This state of things I regard as absolutely detestable. I look upon you,
my dear sisters, as poor victims, and if you wi