into the fireplace, the pious task falling to the ground. She takes his
head between her hands)--Oh, what a dear, charming husband you would be
if you had--

Monsieur--If I had what? Tell me quickly.

Madame--If you had a little religion. I should only ask for such a
little at the beginning. It is not very difficult, I can assure you.
While, now, you are really too--

Monsieur--Pea-green, eh?

Madame--Yes, pea-green, you great goose. (She laughs frankly.)

Monsieur--(lifting his hands in the air)--Sound trumpets! Madame has
laughed; Madame is disarmed. Well, my snow-white lamb, I am going to
finish my story; listen properly, there, like that--your hands here, my
head so. Hush! don't laugh. I am speaking seriously. As I was saying to
you, the north room is large but cold, poetic but gloomy, and I will add
that two are not too many in this wintry season to contend against the
rigors of the night. I will further remark that if the sacred ties of
marriage have a profoundly social significance, it is--do not interrupt
me--at that hour of one's existence when one shivers on one's solitary
couch.

Madame--You can not be serious.

Monsieur--Well, seriously, I should like the vicar's mat piously spread
upon your bed, to keep us both warm together, this very evening. I wish
to return as speedily as possible to the intimacy of conjugal life. Do
you hear how the wind blows and whistles through the doors? The fire
splutters, and your feet are frozen. (He takes her foot in his hands.)

Madame--But you are taking off my slipper, George.

Monsieur--Do you think, my white lamb, that I am going to leave your
poor little foot in that state? Let it stay in my hand to be warmed.
Nothing is so cold as silk. What! openwork stockings? My dear, you are
rather dainty about your foot-gear for a Friday. Do you know, pet, you
can not imagine how gay I wake up when the morning sun shines into my
room. You shall see. I am no longer a man; I am a chaffinch; all the
joys of spring recur to me. I laugh, I sing, I speechify, I tell tales
to make one die of laughter. Sometimes I even dance.

Madame--Come now! I who in the morning like neither noise nor broad
daylight--how little all that suits!

Monsieur--(suddenly changing his tone)--Did I say that I liked all that?
The morning sun? Never in autumn, my sweet dove, never. I awake, on the
contrary full of languor and poesy; I was like that in my very cradle.
We will prolong the night, and beh