Madame--(sadly)--See what a state you get in over a little favor I ask of you. If in order to please me you were to overcome a slight repugnance, if you were just to touch this nice, white jelly with you lips, where would be the harm? Monsieur--The harm! the harm! it would be ridiculous. Never. Madame--That is the reason? “It would be absurd.” It is not from disgust, for there is nothing disgusting there, it is flour and water, nothing more. It is not then from a dislike, but out of pride that you refuse? Monsieur--(shrugging his shoulders)--What you say is childish, puerile, silly. I do not care to answer it. Madame--And what you say is neither generous nor worthy of you, since you abuse your superiority. You see me at your feet pleading for an insignificant thing, puerile, childish, foolish, perhaps, but one which would give me pleasure, and you think it heroic not to yield. Do you want me to speak out, well? then, you men are unfeeling. Monsieur--Never. Madame--Why, you admitted it to me yourself one night, on the Pont des Arts, as we were walking home from the theatre. Monsieur--After all, there is no great harm in that. Madame--(sadly)--I am not angry with you, this sternness is part of your nature, you are a rod of iron. Monsieur--I have some energy when it is needed, I grant you, but I have not the absurd pride you imagine, and there (he dips his finger in the paste and carries it to his lips), is the proof, you spoilt child. Are you satisfied? It has no taste, it is insipid. Madame--You were pretending. Monsieur--I swear to you... Madame (taking a little soon, filling it with her precious paste and holding it to her husband’s lips)--I want to see the face you will make, love. Monsieur--(Puts out his lips, buries his two front teeth, with marked disgust, in the paste, makes a horrible face and spits into the fireplace)--Eugh. Madame--(still holding the spoon and with much interest) Well? Monsieur--Well! it is awful! oh! awful! taste it. Madame--(dreamily stirring the paste with the spoon, her little finger in the air)--I should never have believed that it was so nasty. Monsieur--You will soon see for yourself, taste it, taste it. Madame--I am in no hurry, I have plenty of time. Monsieur--To see what it is like. Taste a little, come. Madame--(pushing away the plate with a look of horror)--Oh! how you worry me. Be quiet, do; for a trifle I could hate you. It is disgusting, this paste of yours! CHAPTER XXII. FAMILY LIFE