After the evening when young CallÉ played bÉzique until midnight with Madame DubottÉ, the clinging ÉlÉonore said to her husband:

"Do you know, monsieur, that it was very wrong of you to leave me to pass the evening alone with a young man? and that it shows the greatest indifference on your part toward your wife? for, if I didn't love you as I do, I might revenge myself for your neglect. You expose me to the risk of receiving declarations of love!"

"My dear love, you don't look at things from the right standpoint," PhilÉmon replied, caressing his mutton-chop whiskers, which threatened to encroach upon his cheeks. "Tell me, did CallÉ make a declaration?"

"Oh, no!"

"You see! Deuce take it! I know with whom I leave you: that young man is as virtuous as Voltaire's Candide. Do you know Candide?"

"No, my dear."

"I'll get it for you; for you're a little behindhand in literary matters, and I propose to train you in every way. I don't choose to have people say of my wife that she's a ninny. I won't have that, do you hear? and you must govern yourself accordingly."

"I will try, my dear."

"To return to CallÉ: he is more or less of a simpleton. He doesn't dare to look a woman in the face; indeed, he hardly dares to speak to one. So you see that I can safely leave you with him. If he should ever become any woman's lover, she would have to make the first overtures!"

"Do you think so, my dear?"

"I am sure of it; he would never dare to declare himself, unless he got a little help. And so, my dear love, as I know your virtue and your affection for me, I am entirely easy in my mind. I would intrust you to CallÉ, my dear, as I would to a keeper of the seraglio. Do you know what a keeper of the seraglio is, in Turkey?"

"No, my dear."

"Well, he's a eunuch."

"What in the world is a eunuch?"

"Why, don't you know that? I'll tell you some night—when it rains. Evidently, I have a great many things to teach you."

A few days later, PhilÉmon said to his wife one morning:

"My dear love, I am going to make you very happy!—I know how much you like the theatre, especially the Gymnase; well, I have taken a box for you there, for to-night."

"Oh! what fun! at the Gymnase! and a box! How lovely of you, dear! Tell me what time we must start, so that I can be ready and not make you impatient."

"Oh! the play doesn't begin till half-past seven—be ready at quarter-past, that will be early enough; he won't call for you before then."

"What did you say? call for me? Am I not to go with you?"

"No; I will join you later; I have to go to an evening party given by my chief. I can't miss that, you understand. When a man wants promotion, he must always stand well with those above him."

"But, in that case, as you knew you were going somewhere else, you shouldn't have got a box for this evening."

"Why not, pray? If I am enjoying myself in one place, is it any more than fair that you should enjoy yourself, too?"

"But you used always to take me with you to your chief's parties."

"Yes, to the dancing parties and the musicales. But this is to be a—serious party; we shall talk politics and discuss the best method of dealing with the maturing obligations of a new Oriental railway; and you can see for yourself that women would be bored to death to sit and listen to all that. That's why there are to be no women."

"With whom do you propose to send me to the play, then?"

"Oh! don't worry about that; I have sent word to CallÉ! I saw him yesterday, and asked him if he would like to take you to the theatre to-night. He jumped for joy; he adores the theatre."

"But you impose on that young man's good nature."

"On the contrary, I make him very happy! The poor fellow, who has never been able to have a mistress of a decent sort, is delighted to be your escort.—'People will think I've made a conquest of her,' he'll say to himself."

"And you are willing people should think that I am that young man's mistress?"

"Why, no, indeed! no one will believe it! What I say is, that he will imagine that people believe it. I have to dot all my i's to make you understand!"

"There's one thing that I understand very well, monsieur; and that is, that nowadays you do your utmost to avoid taking me anywhere with you. Although you think me a great fool, I beg you to believe that I can see that perfectly well."

"Oh! that's just like a woman! taking everything hind side before! A fellow does all he can to be agreeable—buys a box at the theatre, for a charming play, and says to himself: 'I can't take her to a—political gathering, but I don't want her to sit mooning all alone in her chimney corner.'—And instead of being thanked for what he has done, he is overwhelmed with reproaches, and has to listen to the most absurd reflections! Don't you be alarmed: it will be very hot when I buy another box for you!"

Monsieur DubottÉ left the house in a very ill humor. Madame said nothing more, but she probably thought a good deal. When evening came, she made her toilet and took infinite pains with it. Young CallÉ arrived with great promptness at the appointed time. He was in full dress, and becurled and perfumed as if he were going to a wedding.

"Here's your box," said PhilÉmon, as he handed him the ticket; "I will join you later, if it's possible for me to get away from my chief's party early enough. Try to make my wife enjoy herself; that isn't very easy, for she's not always in good humor. If you succeed in making her amiable, you'll perform a miracle."

Young CallÉ bowed and set off with ÉlÉonore, who was becoming accustomed to accept his arm. Her escort suggested taking a cab, but she refused, as the Gymnase was not far away. On the way, CallÉ began a number of sentences concerning the pleasure it afforded him to be with such a charming person; when he could go no further, ÉlÉonore came to his assistance by saying: "You are very good!"—and the sentence remained unfinished.

When they reached the theatre, CallÉ looked at the ticket and said:

"It's a baignoire."

"A baignoire? I don't know what that is; is it very high?"

"No, on the contrary, it's low; on a level with the pit."

When the box door was opened, ÉlÉonore hesitated about going in.

"Mon Dieu! how dark it is in there!" she exclaimed. "Is this our box?"

"To be sure, madame," replied the box opener; "and it's almost opposite the stage, as you see."

"Dear me! what a strange place! Yes, we do have a good view of the stage, that is true; but we can't be seen—it is hardly worth while to take pains with one's dress. However, perhaps I shall get used to it. Do you like these boxes, Monsieur CallÉ?"

"So far as I am concerned, madame, I am always satisfied when—I have the—the privilege——"

"You are very good!"

ÉlÉonore took her seat at the front of the box, and CallÉ modestly seated himself behind her. When she had looked for a moment into the auditorium, of which she could see only a very small part, she turned toward her escort, who returned her glance, sighed, and said nothing.

"You can't see anything from where you are, Monsieur CallÉ, can you? Sit here in front, beside me."

"You are very kind, madame, but I am all right here; if I sat in front, I—I should crowd you."

"Not at all."

"I can see the stage very well."

"But you can't see the audience at all."

"I don't care for that; what I do see is much more agreeable to me—to look at—and when—when one is near—near madame—then one has no wish to—one does not look elsewhere for—one——"

"You are very good!"

The play began, and they listened intently; there was much talk of love in it. ÉlÉonore seemed deeply interested in it; the young man continued to sigh. After the first act he went out, and returned in a moment with bonbons and fruits glacÉs, which he offered to Madame DubottÉ. She accepted them with a sweet smile. It was an excellent chance to tell her escort that he was very good; but she contented herself with handing him a quarter of an orange, then proceeded to stuff herself with the sweetmeats. As a general rule, women are very fond of bonbons; a man ought always to have his pockets full when he wishes to make himself agreeable to them. You may vary the menu, however, by adding truffles stewed in champagne; then your success will be even more complete.

The second play began. Now and then, in order to obtain a better view, the young man leaned forward from behind ÉlÉonore. At such times his head brushed against the pretty blonde's shoulders; those shoulders were very white and her chest well developed. Her dress was cut low, and while looking at the shoulders one could see the base of those charming globes which, to my mind, excel in value all balloons, past, present, and to come, even Nadar's Giant. With them, to be sure, you cannot float through the air; but I opine that what we find on earth is worth much more than anything we can find aloft. Young CallÉ, therefore, was not so much of a fool as he seemed, when he sat behind ÉlÉonore. She, upon turning suddenly, collided with the head of her escort, who was not looking at the stage at that moment; and their two faces were so near to each other that the ends of their noses touched. A man accustomed to intrigues would have seized the opportunity to kiss the young woman, but CallÉ hastily drew back, stammering apologies which no one demanded of him; for ÉlÉonore, when she found those eyes absorbed by contemplation of her charms, had been on the point of saying:

"You are very good!"

The second play had quite as much to say of love as the first. After the first act, finding that her companion continued to sigh without daring to speak, ÉlÉonore remembered that her husband had told her that he needed to be encouraged, and that without encouragement he would never venture to talk with a lady; so she began the conversation.

"I have noticed one thing, Monsieur CallÉ."

"What is that, madame?"

"That there's a lot about love in all plays."

"Yes, that is true; you are right; they bring it in everywhere."

"Why is it, monsieur?"

"Why, madame, it is, apparently, because the authors don't know how to talk about anything else."

"Do you think so? I have heard people say that the stage was simply a copy of what happens in real life. But in real life people don't talk about love all the time, do they, monsieur?"

"Oh, no! madame, they don't always talk about it—although often—one would like to talk about it—but one doesn't dare."

"Oho! so it's because one doesn't dare. That is a great mistake! It seems to me that it's more interesting, more entertaining, than any other subject."

Young CallÉ had a declaration on the tip of his tongue. But the second act began, and he said nothing more. During the act, ÉlÉonore dropped her opera glass on the floor. CallÉ instantly stepped forward to pick it up; but, in order to do it, he had to go to the front of the box and stoop until he was almost on his knees, for it was very dark, and he had to feel about on the floor. Instead of the opera glass, he seized ÉlÉonore's foot and pressed it tenderly.

"Why, that is not my opera glass that you have, Monsieur CallÉ; it's my foot," said the pretty blonde, laughing.

"Are you sure, madame?"

"Oh! yes, I can feel. But where are you looking, Monsieur CallÉ? my glass isn't there; I can feel it with my foot."

CallÉ decided at last, albeit with regret, to take his head from under the seat; he had the opera glass, and presented it to the young lady with a trembling hand. She was deeply moved, so much so that, in trying to take it, she dropped it again. That time it fell in her lap, however; so CallÉ resumed his seat; but after that, when ÉlÉonore turned to speak to him, she sometimes leaned upon him, perhaps unconsciously; ladies often venture upon trifling familiarities like that, which give great hopes to him with whom they indulge in them. The young man was as red as a cherry, and his eyes were always somewhere else than on the stage.

The act came to an end, and Madame DubottÉ, turning to her escort, asked him what he thought of the play.

"I don't know, madame," he faltered; "I didn't hear a word of it."

"What! didn't you listen?"

"I beg pardon—I listened, but I didn't hear. I was so distraught by—— Did your opera glass fall again, madame?"

"Why, no—it's here in my lap."

"Oh! that's a pity!"

"Why so? would you like it to be on the floor again?"

"Oh! yes, because I might have the pleasure of looking for it. And then—and then——"

According to his custom, the young man failed to finish the sentence; but he heaved such a prodigious sigh that Madame DubottÉ asked him with concern:

"Are you ill, Monsieur CallÉ?"

"Oh! no, madame; far from it!"

"Why do you sigh so deeply, then?"

"That is my way of being happy."

"Ah! that's curious. So you are very happy, are you?"

"Oh! yes, madame; I always am—when I am with you!"

He actually finished his sentence that time. ÉlÉonore thanked him with a sweet smile; and during the last act she leaned much more frequently on the young man, whose knees served to transform her seat into an armchair.

The performance came to an end. They walked home slowly, very slowly; they did not seem in any haste to arrive. ÉlÉonore talked about the play; the young man answered yes and no at random, but he pressed very tenderly the arm that was passed through his, and the caress seemed in no wise to offend her to whom it was addressed.

On reaching home, Madame DubottÉ invited her young escort to come soon to play bÉzique with her, while her husband went about without her according to his custom. CallÉ promised to take advantage of her invitation.

And so, during the following week, Monsieur CallÉ went almost every evening to play bÉzique with fair-haired ÉlÉonore; and she was no longer out of temper when her husband went out without her. Indeed, she sometimes said to him:

"My dear, if you have any business on hand, don't put yourself out for me; Monsieur CallÉ will come and stay with me. He is very strong at bÉzique, and never has enough of it; he is indefatigable!"

DubottÉ was enchanted.

"At last I have trained my wife!" he cried; "she is just what I wanted her to be! She isn't on my back all the time now; she leaves me entirely at liberty. That is what I wanted to bring about; I had hard work, but I have succeeded. She goes to the theatre with CallÉ now, without showing any temper, even when I don't go after her."

The young woman did more than that: when her husband promised to secure a box for her, she always said:

"Try to get a baignoire, my dear!"