"I like it as coming from God," says Madame Deschars. "How do you like it?" you say to your wife. "I like it legitimate." This response of your wife is not understood, and sends you a journey into the constellated fields of the infinite, where the mind, dazzled by the multitude of creations, finds it impossible to make a choice. "Where do you put it?" "In a carriage." "In a garret." "In a steamboat." "In the closet." "On a cart." "In prison." "In the ears." "In a shop." Your wife says to you last of all: "In bed." You were on the point of guessing it, but you know no word that fits this answer, Madame Deschars not being likely to have allowed anything improper. "What do you do with it?" "I make it my sole happiness," says your wife, after the answers of all the rest, who have sent you spinning through a whole world of linguistic suppositions. This response strikes everybody, and you especially; so you persist in seeking the meaning of it. You think of the bottle of hot water that your wife has put to her feet when it is cold,--of the warming pan, above all! Now of her night-cap,--of her handkerchief,--of her curling paper,--of the hem of her chemise,--of her embroidery,--of her flannel jacket,--of your bandanna,--of the pillow. In short, as the greatest pleasure of the respondents is to see their Oedipus mystified, as each word guessed by you throws them into fits of laughter, superior men, perceiving no word that will fit all the explanations, will sooner give it up than make three unsuccessful attempts. According to the law of this innocent game you are condemned to return to the parlor after leaving a forfeit; but you are so exceedingly puzzled by your wife's answers, that you ask what the word was. "Mal," exclaims a young miss. You comprehend everything but your wife's replies: she has not played the game. Neither Madame Deschars, nor any one of the young women understand. She has cheated. You revolt, there is an insurrection among the girls and young women. They seek and are puzzled. You want an explanation, and every one participates in your desire. "In what sense did you understand the word, my dear?" you say to Caroline. "Why, _male_!" [male.] Madame Deschars bites her lips and manifests the greatest displeasure; the young women blush and drop their eyes; the little girls open theirs, nudge each other and prick up their ears. Your feet are glued to the carpet, and you have so much salt in your throat that you believe in a repetition of the event which delivered Lot from his wife. You see an infernal life before you; society is out of the question. To remain at home with this triumphant stupidity is equivalent to condemnation to the state's prison. Axiom.--Moral tortures exceed physical sufferings by all the difference which exists between the soul and the body. THE ATTENTIONS OF A WIFE.