Madame--Well, and yet, see how strange it is, Louise acknowledged it to me last month, you know; the evening she called for me to go to the perpetual Adoration, and our hour of adoration, as it turned out, by the way, was from six to seven; impossible, too, to change our turn; none of the ladies caring to adore during dinner-time, as is natural enough. Good heavens, what a rage we were in! How good God must be to have forgiven you. Do you remember? Monsieur--(continuing to read)--Yes, dear. Madame--Ah! you remember that you said, 'I don't care a . . .' Oh! but I won't repeat what you said, it is too naughty. How angry you were! 'I will go and dine at the restaurant, confound it!' But you did not say confound, ha! ha! ha! Well, I loved you just the same at that moment; it vexed me to see you in a rage on God's account, but for my own part I was pleased; I like to see you in a fury; your nostrils expand, and then your moustache bristles, you put me in mind of a lion, and I have always liked lions. When I was quite a child at the Zoological Gardens they could not get me away from them; I threw all my sous into their cage for them to buy gingerbread with; it was quite a passion. Well, to continue my story. (She looks toward her husband who is still reading, and after a pause,) Is it interesting-that which you are reading? Monsieur--(like a man waking up)--What is it, my dear child? What I am reading? Oh, it would scarcely interest you. (With a grimace.) There are Latin phrases, you know, and, besides, I am hoarse. But I am listening, go, on. (He resumes his newspaper.) Madame--Well, to return to the perpetual Adoration, Louise confided to me, under the pledge of secrecy, that she was like me. 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.