“Sir,” said one of the most powerful feminine intelligences which have condescended to enlighten me on some of the most obscure passages in my book, “what do you mean by this wig?”

“Madame,” I answered, “when a man falls into a mood of indifference with regard to his wig, he is,—­he is—­what your husband probably is not.”

“But my husband is not—­” (she paused and thought for a moment).  “He is not amiable; he is not—­well, he is not—­of an even temper; he is not—­”

“Then, madame, he would doubtless be indifferent to his wig!”

We looked at each other, she with a well-assumed air of dignity, I with a suppressed smile.

“I see,” said I, “that we must pay special respect to the ears of the little sex, for they are the only chaste things about them.”

I assumed the attitude of a man who has something of importance to disclose, and the fair dame lowered her eyes, as if she had some reason to blush.

“Madame, in these days a minister is not hanged, as once upon a time, for saying yes or no; a Chateaubriand would scarcely torture Francoise de Foix, and we wear no longer at our side a long sword ready to avenge an insult.  Now in a century when civilization has made such rapid progress, when we can learn a science in twenty-four lessons, everything must follow this race after perfection.  We can no longer speak the manly, rude, coarse language of our ancestors.  The age in which are fabricated such fine, such brilliant stuffs, such elegant furniture, and when are made such rich porcelains, must needs be the age of periphrase and circumlocution.  We must try, therefore, to coin a new word in place of the comic expression which Moliere used; since the language of this great man, as a contemporary author has said, is too free for ladies who find gauze too thick for their garments.  But people of the world know, as well as the learned, how the Greeks had an innate taste for mysteries.  That poetic nation knew well how to invest with the tints of fable the antique traditions of their history.  At the voice of their rhapsodists together with their poets and romancers, kings became gods and their adventures of gallantry were transformed into immortal allegories.  According to M. Chompre, licentiate in law, the classic author of the Dictionary of Mythology, the labyrinth was ’an enclosure planted with trees and adorned with buildings arranged in such a way that when a young man once entered, he could no more find his way out.’  Here and there flowery thickets were presented to his view, but in the midst of a multitude of alleys, which crossed and recrossed his path and bore the appearance of a uniform passage, among the briars, rocks and thorns, the patient found himself in combat with an animal called the Minotaur.