Then she wanted to start the inspection of the apartment all over again with the windows closed and the lights burning, in order to see the effect produced at night, never tiring of examining a thing more than once, running from one room to another, marking down every defect on a piece of paper. Then it was the wardrobe where she put her linen and mine with meticulous care and elaborate nicety and the consummate skill of a stall keeper. I chided her for assigning to me the better scentbags. "No! no! no! I want to have a little husband who uses perfume!" Of her old furniture and old knick-knacks, Juliette had kept only the terra cotta statue of Love which again took its place of honor on the mantlepiece in the parlor. I, on the other hand, had brought over only my books and two very beautiful sketches by Lirat which I thought it a duty to hang up in my study. Scandalized, Juliette cried with indignation: "What are you doing there, my dear?... Such horrible things in our new apartment!... Please put these horrible things away somewhere! Oh, put them away!" "My dear Juliette," I answered somewhat provoked. "You have kept your terra cotta statue of Love, not so?" "Certainly I have.... But what has that to do with this?... My terra cotta statue is very, very lovely. Whereas that thing there ... why really!... And then it's improper!... Besides, every time I look at the paintings of that fool Lirat I feel a pain in my stomach." Before that I used to have the courage of my artistic convictions and I defended them with fire. But now it seemed puerile on my part to engage in a discussion of art with Juliette, so I contented myself with hiding the pictures inside a press without much regret. Finally the day arrived when everything was in admirable order; everything in its place, the smallest objects resting smartly on the tables, console tables, windows; the stands decorated with large leafed plants; the books in the library within reach; Spy in his new niche and flowers everywhere.... Nothing was missing, nothing, not even a rose, whose stem bathed in a long thin glass vase standing on my desk. Juliette was radiant, triumphant; she repeated without end: "Look, look again how well your little wife has worked!" And resting her head on my shoulder with a tender look in her eyes and a genuinely agitated voice, she murmured: "Oh, my adored Jean, at last we are in our own home, our own home, just think of it!... How happy we shall be here, in our pretty nest!..." The next morning Juliette said to me: "It has been a long time since you saw Monsieur Lirat. I don't want him to think that I keep you from visiting him."