You, who are innocently playing cards or walking backwards and forwards, and so have not seen one of the thousand pin-pricks with which your wife’s self-love has been tattooed, you come and ask her in a whisper, “What is the matter?” “Order _my_ carriage!” This _my_ is the consummation of marriage. For two years she has said “_my husband’s_ carriage,” “_the_ carriage,” “_our_ carriage,” and now she says “_my_ carriage.” You are in the midst of a game, you say, somebody wants his revenge, or you must get your money back. Here, Adolphe, we allow that you have sufficient strength of mind to say yes, to disappear, and _not_ to order the carriage. You have a friend, you send him to dance with your wife, for you have commenced a system of concessions which will ruin you. You already dimly perceive the advantage of a friend. Finally, you order the carriage. You wife gets in with concentrated rage, she hurls herself into a corner, covers her face with her hood, crosses her arms under her pelisse, and says not a word. O husbands! Learn this fact; you may, at this fatal moment, repair and redeem everything: and never does the impetuosity of lovers who have been caressing each other the whole evening with flaming gaze fail to do it! Yes, you can bring her home in triumph, she has now nobody but you, you have one more chance, that of taking your wife by storm! But no, idiot, stupid and indifferent that you are, you ask her, “What is the matter?” Axiom.—A husband should always know what is the matter with his wife, for she always knows what is not. “I’m cold,” she says. “The ball was splendid.” “Pooh! nobody of distinction! People have the mania, nowadays, to invite all Paris into a hole. There were women even on the stairs: their gowns were horribly smashed, and mine is ruined.” “We had a good time.” “Ah, you men, you play and that’s the whole of it. Once married, you care about as much for your wives as a lion does for the fine arts.” “How changed you are; you were so gay, so happy, so charming when we arrived.” “Oh, you never understand us women. I begged you to go home, and you left me there, as if a woman ever did anything without a reason. You are not without intelligence, but now and then you are so queer I don’t know what you are thinking about.” Once upon this footing, the quarrel becomes more bitter. When you give your wife your hand to lift her from the carriage, you grasp a woman of wood: she gives you a “thank you” which puts you in the same rank as her servant. You understood your wife no better before than you do after the ball: you find it difficult to follow her, for instead of going up stairs, she flies up. The rupture is complete. The chambermaid is involved in your disgrace: she is received with blunt No’s and Yes’s, as dry as Brussells rusks, which she swallows with a slanting glance at you. “Monsieur’s always doing these things,” she mutters.