on the Champs Elysees, for we were to go the rounds of the Champs Elysees, before taking our walk at the Tuileries.  Finally, a fit of impatience seized me.  I felt a slight attack of fever, and when I got home, I composed myself to smile.  ’You haven’t said a word about my dress!’ I muttered.  ’Ah, yes, your gown is somewhat like Madame de Fischtaminel’s.’  He turned on his heel and went away.

“The next day I pouted a little, as you may readily imagine.  Just as we were finishing breakfast by the fire in my room—­I shall never forget it—­the embroideress called to get her money for the neckerchief.  I paid her.  She bowed to my husband as if she knew him.  I ran after her on pretext of getting her to receipt the bill, and said:  ‘You didn’t ask him so much for Madame de Fischtaminel’s kerchief!’ ’I assure you, madame, it’s the same price, the gentleman did not beat me down a mite.’  I returned to my room where I found my husband looking as foolish as—­”

She hesitates and then resumes:  “As a miller just made a bishop.  ’I understand, love, now, that I shall never be anything more than somewhat like Madame de Fischtaminel.’  ’You refer to her neckerchief, I suppose:  well, I did give it to her,—­it was for her birthday.  You see, we were formerly—­’ ’Ah, you were formerly more intimate than you are now!’ Without replying to this, he added, ’But it’s altogether moral.’

“He took his hat and went out, leaving me with this fine declaration of the Rights of Man.  He did not return and came home late at night.  I remained in my chamber and wept like a Magdalen, in the chimney-corner.  You may laugh at me, if you will,” she adds, looking at me, “but I shed tears over my youthful illusions, and I wept, too, for spite, at having been taken for a dupe.  I remembered the dressmaker’s smile!  Ah, that smile reminded me of the smiles of a number of women, who laughed at seeing me so innocent and unsuspecting at Madame de Fischtaminel’s!  I wept sincerely.  Until now I had a right to give my husband credit for many things which he did not possess, but in the existence of which young married women pertinaciously believe.

“How many great troubles are included in this petty one!  You men are a vulgar set.  There is not a woman who does not carry her delicacy so far as to embroider her past life with the most delightful fibs, while you—­but I have had my revenge.”

“Madame,” I say, “you are giving this young lady too much information.”

“True,” she returns, “I will tell you the sequel some other time.”

“Thus, you see, mademoiselle,” I say, “you imagine you are buying a neckerchief and you find a petty trouble round your neck:  if you get it given to you—­”

“It’s a great trouble,” retorts the woman of distinction.  “Let us stop here.”

The moral of this fable is that you must wear your neckerchief without thinking too much about it.  The ancient prophets called this world, even in their time, a valley of woe.  Now, at that period, the Orientals had, with the permission of the constituted authorities, a swarm of comely slaves, besides their wives!  What shall we call the valley of the Seine between Calvary and Charenton, where the law allows but one lawful wife.