don't wear out your old
shoes yourself. There is no reason for being neater in Paris than in the
country.'

"I lowered my eyes. She was indeed wearing worn-out shoes, and I noticed
that her stockings were not pulled up tight.

"She had blushed and hidden her foot under her dress. The friend was
looking out in the distance with an indifferent and unconcerned look.

"The husband offered me a cigar, which I accepted. For a few days it was
impossible for me to be alone with her for two minutes; he was with us
everywhere. He was delightful to me, however.

"One morning he came to get me to take a walk before breakfast, and
the conversation happened to turn on marriage. I spoke a little about
solitude and about how charming life can be made by the affection of a
woman. Suddenly he interrupted me, saying: 'My friend, don't talk about
things you know nothing about. A woman who has no other reason for
loving you will not love you long. All the little coquetries which make
them so exquisite when they do not definitely belong to us cease as soon
as they become ours. And then--the respectable women--that is to say our
wives--are--are not--in fact do not understand their profession of wife.
Do you understand?'

"He said no more, and I could not guess his thoughts.

"Two days after this conversation he called me to his room quite early,
in order to show me a collection of engravings. I sat in an easy chair
opposite the big door which separated his apartment from his wife's, and
behind this door I heard some one walking and moving, and I was
thinking very little of the engravings, although I kept exclaiming: 'Oh,
charming! delightful! exquisite!'

"He suddenly said: 'Oh, I have a beautiful specimen in the next room.
I'll go and get it.'

"He ran to the door quickly, and both sides opened as though for a
theatrical effect.

"In a large room, all in disorder, in the midst of skirts, collars,
waists lying around on the floor, stood a tall, dried-up creature. The
lower part of her body was covered with an old, worn-out silk petticoat,
which was hanging limply on her shapeless form, and she was standing
in front of a mirror brushing some short, sparse blond hairs. Her arms
formed two acute angles, and as she turned around in astonishment I saw
under a common cotton chemise a regular cemetery of ribs, which were
hidden from the public gaze by well-arranged pads.

"The husband uttered a natural exclamation and came back, closing