Two young married women, Caroline and Stephanie, who had been early
friends at M’lle Machefer’s boarding school, one of the most celebrated
educational institutions in the Faubourg St. Honoré, met at a ball
given by Madame de Fischtaminel, and the following conversation took
place in a window-seat in the boudoir.
It was so hot that a man had acted upon the idea of going to breathe
the fresh night air, some time before the two young women. He had
placed himself in the angle of the balcony, and, as there were many
flowers before the window, the two friends thought themselves alone.
This man was the author’s best friend.
One of the two ladies, standing at the corner of the embrasure, kept
watch by looking at the boudoir and the parlors. The other had so
placed herself as not to be in the draft, which was nevertheless
tempered by the muslin and silk curtains.
The boudoir was empty, the ball was just beginning, the gaming-tables
were open, offering their green cloths and their packs of cards still
compressed in the frail case placed upon them by the customs office.
The second quadrille was in progress.
All who go to balls will remember that phase of large parties when the
guests are not yet all arrived, but when the rooms are already filled
—a moment which gives the mistress of the house a transitory pang of
terror. This moment is, other points of comparison apart, like that
which decides a victory or the loss of a battle.
You will understand, therefore, how what was meant to be a secret now
obtains the honors of publicity.
“Well, Caroline?”
“Well, Stephanie?”
“Well?”
“Well?”
A double sigh.
“Have you forgotten our agreement?”
“No.”
“Why haven’t you been to see me, then?”
“I am never left alone. Even here we shall hardly have time to talk.”
“Ah! if Adolphe were to get into such habits as that!” exclaimed
Caroline.
“You saw us, Armand and me, when he paid me what is called, I don’t
know why, his court.”
“Yes, I admired him, I thought you very happy, you had found your
ideal, a fine, good-sized man, always well dressed, with yellow gloves,
his beard well shaven, patent leather boots, a clean shirt, exquisitely
neat, and so attentive—”
“Yes, yes, go on.”
“In short, quite an elegant man: his voice was femininely sweet, and
then such gentleness! And his promises of happiness and liberty! His
sentences were veneered with rosewood. He stocked his conversation with
shawls and laces. In his smallest expression you heard the rumbling of
a coach and four. Your wedding presents were magnificent. Armand seemed
to me like a husband of velvet, of a robe of birds’ feathers in which
you were to be wrapped.”
“Caroline, my husband uses tobacco.”
“So does mine; that is, he smokes.”
“But mine, dear, uses it as they say Napoleon did: in short, he chews,
and I hold tobacco in horror. The monster found it out, and went
without out it for seven months.”
“All men have their habits. They absolutely must use something.”
“You have no idea of the tortures I endure. At night I am awakened with
a start by one of my own sneezes. As I go to sleep my motions bring the
grains of snuff scattered over the pillow under my nose, I inhale, and
explode like a mine. It seems that Armand, the wretch, is used to these
_surprises_, and doesn’t wake up. I find tobacco everywhere, and I
certainly didn’t marry the customs office.”
“But, my dear child, what does this trifling inconvenience amount to,
if your husband is kind and possesses a good disposition?”
“He is as cold as marble, as particular as an old bachelor, as
communicative as a sentinel; and he’s one of those men who say yes to
everything, but who never do anything but what they want to.”
“Deny him, once.”
“I’ve tried it.”
“What came of it?”
“He threatened to reduce my allowance, and to keep back a sum big
enough for him to get along without me.”
“Poor Stephanie! He’s not a man, he’s a monster.”
“A calm and methodical monster, who wears a scratch, and who, every
night—”
“Well, every night—”
“Wait a minute!—who takes a tumbler every night, and puts seven false
teeth in it.”
“What a trap your marriage was! At any rate, Armand is rich.”
“Who knows?”
“Good heavens! Why, you seem to me on the point of becoming very
unhappy—or very happy.”
“Well, dear, how is it with you?”
“Oh, as for me, I have nothing as yet but a pin that pricks me: but it
is intolerable.”
“Poor creature! You don’t know your own happiness: come, what is it?”
Here the young woman whispered in the other’s ear, so that it was
impossible to catch a single word. The conversation recommenced, or
rather finished by a sort of inference.
“So, your Adolphe is jealous?”
“Jealous of whom? We never leave each other, and that, in itself, is an
annoyance. I can’t stand it. I don’t dare to gape. I am expected to be
forever enacting the woman in love. It’s fatiguing.”
“Caroline?”
“Well?”
“What are you going to do?”
“Resign myself. What are you?
“Fight the customs office.”
This little trouble tends to prove that in the matter of personal
deception, the two sexes can well cry quits.