Monsieur--Like you? What do you mean? Madame--Like me; that is plain enough. Monsieur--You are talking nonsense, my little angel, follies as great as your chignon. You women will end by putting pillows into your chignons. Madame--(resting her elbows on her husband’s knees)--But, after all, the instincts, the resemblances we have, must certainly be attributed to something. Can any one imagine, for instance, that God made your cousin as stupid as he is, and with a head like a pear? Monsieur--My cousin! my cousin! Ferdinand is only a cousin by marriage. I grant, however, that he is not very bright. Madame--Well, I am sure that his mother must have had a longing, or something. Monsieur--What can I do to help it, my angel? Madame--Nothing at all; but it clearly shows that such things are not to be laughed at; and if I were to tell you that I had a longing-- Monsieur--(letting fall his newspaper)--The devil! a longing for what? Madame--Ah! there your nostrils are dilating; you are going to resemble a lion again, and I never shall dare to tell you. It is so extraordinary, and yet my mother had exactly the same longing. Monsieur--Come, tell it me, you see that I am patient. If it is possible to gratify it, you know that I love you, my... Don’t kiss me on the neck; you will make me jump up to the ceiling, my darling. Madame--Repeat those two little words. I am your darling, then? Monsieur--Ha! ha! ha! She has little fingers which--ha! ha!--go into your neck--ha! ha!--you will make me break something, nervous as I am. Madame--Well, break something. If one may not touch one’s husband, one may as well go into a convent at once. (She puts her lips to MONSIEUR’S ear and coquettishly pulls the end of his moustache.) I shall not be happy till I have what I am longing for, and then it would be so kind of you to do it. Monsieur--Kind to do what? Come, dear, explain yourself. Madame--You must first of all take off that great, ugly dressing-gown, pull on your boots, put on your hat and go. Oh, don’t make any faces; if you grumble in the least all the merit of your devotedness will disappear ... and go to the grocer’s at the corner of the street, a very respectable shop. Monsieur--To the grocer’s at ten o’clock at night! Are you mad? I will ring for John; it is his business. Madame (staying his hand) You indiscreet man. These are our own private affairs; we must not take any one into our confidence. I will go into your dressing-room to get your things, and you will put your boots on before the fire comfortably... to please me, Alfred, my love, my life. I would give my little finger to have... Monsieur--To have what, hang it all, what, what, what? Madame--(her face alight and fixing her eyes on him)--I want a sou’s worth of paste. Had not you guessed it? Monsieur--But it is madness, delirium, fol-- Madame--I said paste, dearest; only a sou’s worth, wrapped in strong paper. Monsieur--No, no. I am kind-hearted, but I should reproach myself--