“My dear love, it is because it is a bore to me to look at myself.” “Oh! wait a moment, I have an idea. I will sit beside you; then, when you look in the glass, you will see me too, and I trust, monsieur, that you will not make faces at me.” Eugénie’s idea impressed me as a charming one. Thanks to her invention, I was no longer bored when I sat for myself; for she was always there beside me, and when I looked in the mirror she was the first thing I saw; my portrait gained enormously thereby; I was able to paint myself as she wished, and she was as well pleased as I had been with hers. I had her portrait set in a locket which I always wore; she had mine set in a bracelet which she always had on her arm. We were not content to have each other in reality, we must needs have each other’s image as well; if we could have possessed each other in any other way, we would have done it. But is it a mistake to love too dearly? Her mother and mine both declared that we were unreasonable, that we were worse than lovers; but Eugénie and I were determined never to change; we liked each other well enough as we were. My wife insisted that I should begin to learn the piano; and I showed her how to use a brush. Those lessons were most delicious to us; and they occupied a large part of the day. I realized however that piano playing and painting would not make me eminent at the bar. Since my marriage I had neglected the Palais, and paid almost no attention to business; but when I would propose to study, to shut myself up in my office, Eugénie would detain me, saying: “What is the use of worrying yourself, of tiring your brain over your Code and your Pandects? Are we not rich enough? Are we not happy? What is the need of your trying cases, of your tormenting yourself for other people? Stay with me, give me a lesson in painting, and don’t go to the Palais.” I could not resist my wife. My mother scolded me sometimes for what she called my laziness. Love is not laziness, but a happy love makes us unfit for anything except making love. Three months passed almost as rapidly as the first fortnight of our married life. But I had learned to play _On Dit qu’à Quinze Ans_ on the piano, and Eugénie was making rapid progress in painting. A new subject of rejoicing added to our happiness: my wife was enceinte. We leaped for joy, we danced about the room, thinking that we were to have a child. We talked of nothing else, we made no plans for the future in which our son or daughter had not a share. Good Madame Dumeillan shared our delight; my mother complimented me, but without enthusiasm, and as if it were a very trifling matter; whereas it seemed to me that it ought to mark an epoch in the world’s history.