“They may well call me the ‘Débonnaire,’ little Abbé. Hein! There have been but two Bourbons yet who ever _understood_ France. One was a king, and the other—well, the other is only a regent. No matter. Cric! Crac! Two snaps of the fingers, and everything fits into its place like a game at dominoes. But, little Abbé,” added the exulting politician, while his brow clouded and he forgot to look like Henri Quatre, “to govern the nation signifies but ruling _men_. Such matters arrange themselves. The state machine can go without a push. But I have worse complications than these. Counsel me, my dear Abbé. There is discord dire this morning throughout the women. I tell you the whole heap are at daggers drawn with one another, and my life is hardly safe amongst them all.” Malletort smiled and shook his head. The difficulty was natural enough, but the remedy required consideration. So he opened his snuff-box. “There is a tribe of Arabs,” he replied, “Highness, far up in the desert, of whom I have heard that their religion permits each man to marry two wives, but with the stipulation, at first sight reasonable enough, that he should live with them both in one tent. The practice of bigamy, I understand, has in that tribe so fallen into disuse as to be completely unknown.” The Regent laughed loudly. “I believe it,” said he, “I believe it implicitly. Powers of strife! and parts of speech. A man should be blind and deaf also to endure the Parabére and the Sabran in neighbouring _faubourgs_, not to speak of the same tent! Ah! these Orientals understand domestic government thoroughly. The harem is a place for repose, and a noisy woman soon quits it, I believe, by the river-gate. We too have the Seine, but alas! where is the sack? I tell you, Malletort, I am tired of them both. I am tired of them all. Madame la Duchesse may be cold, pompous, stiff, contradictory, and, oh! as wearisome as a funeral! but at least she remains half the day in her own apartments, and can command herself sufficiently to behave with decency when she leaves them.” “Madame la Duchesse,”replied the Abbé, bowing reverentially, “is an exemplary and adorable princess. She has but one fault, perhaps I should say less her fault than her misfortune—she is your Highness’s wife.” The Débonnaire laughed again, loud and long. “Well said, little Abbé!” he exclaimed. “_My_ fault, _her_ misfortune. Nevertheless the crime is unpardonable—so no more of _her_. How shall I reconcile Madame de Sabran and Madame de Parabére? I tell you, they sup with us this very night. You make one, Abbé, of course!” Malletort bowed lower than ever. “But think of these two at enmity across my narrow table! Why the Centaurs and Lapithæ would be a love-feast compared to it. Like my ancestor of Navarre, Monsieur l’Abbé, I fear neither man nor devil, but there are some women, I honestly confess, whose anger I dare not encounter, and that is the truth!”