"My dear love--we were saying--I don't know what. I didn't expect a visit from----" "I called upon you first, madame," Albert interposed; "but I was told that you had the vapors, that I could not see you; so I came to ask your husband about your health, as I was anxious about it." "Yes," murmured Monsieur Plays, spitting out a piece of his pen, "yes, Monsieur Albert came to----" "Ah! so you are anxious about my health, monsieur! That is a surprise; I should never have guessed it. Ha! ha! admirable! You amuse yourself at a person's expense, you play a trick upon her--a shameful, outrageous jest of a sort you wouldn't dare try with a grisette--and then, a week afterward, you come here as if nothing had happened, with a cool, placid air! Oh! it makes me ill, it sets my nerves on edge; I would like to smash something!" All this was emitted with remarkable volubility by the superb Herminie, as she paced the floor in intense excitement. Her husband drew back when she talked of smashing something, and faltered: "I was busy working, going over my accounts, and----" "All right, monsieur, all right! I don't ask you what you were doing. Well! what are you eating now? what's that you are twisting about between your teeth? Have you taken to chewing tobacco? that would be the last straw!" "No, my dear love; I was just sucking my pen--for amusement." "That's an odd stick of candy," said Albert, laughing. Even Herminie could not restrain a smile; but she instantly resumed her wrathful expression, and turned her back to her husband to speak to Albert: "I shall never forget that abominable letter! I would never have believed, monsieur, that you would write such things! It was in the vilest taste!" "On my honor, madame, I do not know what you mean; I am not aware of having written a single word that could offend you." "Oh! this is too much! to make such a statement as that! I am terribly sorry that I destroyed the insolent letter, but I know it by heart." Monsieur Plays had returned to his desk, and was mumbling between his teeth: "Five and six are eleven, and eight makes nineteen--and eight makes nineteen----" "And then, it was so idiotic: 'your face is constantly before me, calf's head _en tortue_,'--isn't that very refined?--and--'I send you an intimate friend--perfectly fresh.'--Ah! your friend was fresh, and no mistake! Such a little fool! and how I treated him!" "What you say perplexes me entirely. I cannot understand it. There must be some mistake--you must have read some other letter." "Oh, no! it was addressed to me all right!" "Nineteen and twenty-four make forty-three; put down three and carry--and carry----" "Be quiet, Monsieur Plays; you are insufferable with your addition! What do I care what you carry? Hold your tongue!" Monsieur Plays subsided, with an air of consternation, nor did Albert say anything more; but he produced the lovely bouquet, which he had thus far held behind his back.