Your tresses are so abundant that your little hand can scarcely grasp them. They are so long that your outstretched arm scarcely reaches their extremity. Hence it is not without difficulty that you manage to twist them up and imprison them in your embroidered night-cap. This first duty accomplished, you turn the silver tap, and the pure and limpid water pours into a large bowl of enamelled porcelain. You throw in a few drops of that fluid which perfumes and softens the skin, and like a nymph in the depths of a quiet wood preparing for the toilet, you remove the drapery that might encumber you. But what, Madame, you frown? Have I said too much or not enough? Is it not well known that you love cold water; and do you think it is not guessed that at the contact of the dripping sponge you quiver from head to foot? But what matters it, your toilette for the night is completed, you are fresh, restored, and white as a nun in your embroidered dressing-gown, you dart your bare feet into satin slippers and reenter your bedroom, shivering slightly. To see you walking thus with hurried steps, wrapped tightly in your dressing-gown, and with your pretty head hidden in its nightcap, you might be taken for a little girl leaving the confessional after confessing some terrible sin. Gaining the bedside, Madame lays aside her slippers, and lightly and without effort, bounds into the depths of the alcove. However, Monsieur, who was already asleep with his nose on the Moniteur, suddenly wakes up at the movement imparted to the bed. “I thought that you were in bed already, dear,” he murmurs, falling off to sleep again. “Good-night.” “If I had been in bed you would have noticed it.” Madame stretches out her feet and moves them about; she seems to be in quest of something. “I am not in such a hurry to go to sleep as you are, thank goodness.” Monsieur, suddenly and evidently annoyed, says: “But what is the matter, my dear? You fidget and fidget--I want to sleep.” He turns over as he speaks. “I fidget! I am simply feeling for my hot-water bottle; you are irritating.” “Your hot-water bottle?” is Monsieur’s reply, with a grunt. “Certainly, my hot-water bottle, my feet are frozen.” She goes on feeling for it. “You are really very amiable this evening; you began by dozing over the ‘Revue des Deux Mondes’, and I find you snoring over the ‘Moniteur’. In your place I should vary my literature. I am sure you have taken my hot-water bottle.” “I have been doing wrong. I will subscribe to the ‘Tintamarre’ in future. Come, good-night, my dear.” He turns over. “Hello, your hot-water bottle is right at the bottom of the bed; I can feel it with the tips of my toes.” “Well, push it up; do you think that I can dive down there after it?” “Shall I ring for your maid to help you?” He makes a movement of ill-temper, pulls the clothes up to his chin, and buries his head in the pillow. “Goodnight, my dear.” Madame, somewhat vexed, says: “Good-night, goodnight.”