“‘Just like you!’ cried she. ‘You ask people without speaking to me; I count for nothing here.--Now’ (taking me as arbitrator by a glance) ‘I ask you yourself. When a man has been so foolish as to live with a woman of my sort; for, after all, I was an opera dancer--yes, I ought always to remember that, if other people are to forget it--well, under those circumstances, a clever man seeking to raise his wife in public opinion would do his best to impose her upon the world as a remarkable woman, to justify the step he had taken by acknowledging that in some ways she was something more than ordinary women. The best way of compelling respect from others is to pay respect to her at home, and to leave her absolute mistress of the house. Well, and yet it is enough to awaken one’s vanity to see how frightened he is of seeming to listen to me. I must be in the right ten times over if he concedes a single point.’ “(Emphatic negative gestures from du Bruel at every other word.) “‘Oh, yes, yes,’ she continued quickly, in answer to this mute dissent. ‘I know all about it, du Bruel, my dear, I that have been like a queen in my house all my life till I married you. My wishes were guessed, fulfilled, and more than fulfilled. After all, I am thirty-five, and at five-and-thirty a woman cannot expect to be loved. Ah, if I were a girl of sixteen, if I had not lost something that is dearly bought at the Opera, what attention you would pay me, M. du Bruel! I feel the most supreme contempt for men who boast that they can love and grow careless and neglectful in little things as time grows on. You are short and insignificant, you see, du Bruel; you love to torment a woman; it is your only way of showing your strength. A Napoleon is ready to be swayed by the woman he loves; he loses nothing by it; but as for such as you, you believe that you are nothing apparently, you do not wish to be ruled.--Five-and-thirty, my dear boy,’ she continued, turning to me, ‘that is the clue to the riddle.--“No,” does he say again?--You know quite well that I am thirty-seven. I am very sorry, but just ask your friends to dine at the _Rocher de Cancale_. I _could_ have them here, but I will not; they shall not come. And then perhaps my poor little monologue may engrave that salutary maxim, “Each is master at home,” upon your memory. That is our character,’ she added, laughing, with a return of the opera girl’s giddiness and caprice. “‘Well, well, my dear little puss; there, there, never mind. We can manage to get on together,’ said du Bruel, and he kissed her hands, and we came away. But he was very wroth. “The whole way from the Rue de la Victoire to the boulevard a perfect torrent of venomous words poured from his mouth like a waterfall in flood; but as the shocking language which he used on occasion was quite unfit to print, the report is necessarily inadequate.