THEINCONSISTENCIESOF AGREYHOUND.

THEINCONSISTENCIESOF AGREYHOUND.THE theatre has always had a peculiar charm for me, and yet there are few persons who have greater reason to hold it in utter abhorrence, for it was there at about nine o’clock one evening that I first beheld my husband. As you may well suppose every detail of our meeting is indelibly fixed in my mind. I have indeed many grave reasons for not forgetting it. In all frankness, I wish to accuse no one, but I was never meant for married life. Elegant, attractive, fitted only to revel in the pleasures of the world, and feast on the joys of a great life, space, luxury, brilliancy, were necessary to me. I was born to be a duchess, and married—O heavens! the first clarionet player at the Dogs’ theatre. It was a serious joke! Was it not? It has moved me to laughter times without number. Yes! he really played the clarionet every evening from eight to eleven, the easy parts too, at least, he told me so. I daresay it was not true for I never found that he played false to me.During the day he was second trombone to the parish of dogs, and above all, his greatest ambition was a hat in the National Guards.These details may seem grotesque. Pray forgive me if they are, as I only wish to discharge my duty.One evening when I was at the theatre, I noticed between the acts a big burly dog in the orchestra wearing spectacles, a cap, and blowing his nose in a checked cotton handkerchief. He made so much noise that all heads were turned towards him. Had any one said that that creature would be my future husband I should not have replied. I should have treated the remark with silent contempt. Yet under the most embarrassing circumstances, with all eyes turned upon him, and amid a peal of laughter my future spouse slowly and carefully folded his handkerchief, looking at the company over his spectacles, at the sametime changing the mouthpiece of his instrument with a calmness perfectly charming to behold. This singular proof ofsang-froidcaused me to turn my eye-glass upon him. He no doubt remarked this movement, for he immediately took off his cap, adjusted the short hair on his big head, replaced his spectacles, settled his tie, and pulled down his waistcoat. There is no monster, however ugly, who would not do the same, in his position. His eye which caught mine seemed to me most brilliant.There was as little doubt of his ugliness as of his strange emotion. I was young, silly and coquettish, so it amused me to be looked at like this. The chief mounted his throne and the music commenced anew. The fat clarionet player cast a last glance at me, and then pulled himself together for work. He had started a trifle behind-hand, and galloped over his part to make up for lost time—turning over two pages at once, and running up and down with his big fingers on his unfortunate pipe, producing the most hideous snortings imaginable—the conductor, red as a peony flower, called to him in the midst of the noise menacing him with his bow. His neighbours pushed him, trod on his toes, hooted him, and showered invectives on his head, but he calmly pursued his notes, no doubt blowing through his pipe a hurricane of rage. Knowing I was the sole cause of the delirium I felt flattered; I pitied and loved him! After about a quarter of an hour he stopped, and placing his clarionet between his legs, proceeded to rub his round head with his cotton handkerchief.On leaving the play, at about half-past eleven, it rained slightly, and on passing the stage entrance we were nearly knocked down by an individual wearing a white hairy hat. I can still see him coming out of the door and bearing down upon us—I say us, because my mother was with me; I had not yet ventured to the theatre alone.“Ladies,” cried the Bull-dog, “you have, I daresay, already guessed that the white hat shelters the clarionet. Ladies, stop for heaven’s sake!”“Why? how? How dare you accost us in this manner; stand on one side, sir, stand on one side!” said my mother with a lofty air.Before such a show of nobility the musician stammered, only taking off his hat. “It rains, ladies, and you have no umbrella, deign to accept mine.”My mother who has always been careful, feared water quite as much as she did fire, and accordingly was fain to accept this umbrella, never dreaming that it would lead me to the altar of Hymen.I purposely refrain from dwelling on details as uninteresting to the reader as they are irritating to myself. The bold musician taking advantage of the introduction afforded by an unlucky shower of rain had paid us several visits, when at last my mother said to me,“Eliza, tell me frankly, what do you think of him?”“Who, mamma?” I said inquiringly; “the musician?”“Yes, little rogue, the clarionet, the young Bull-dog who wants your hand. You know quite well I am speaking of him.”“But, mamma, I find him so horribly ugly.”“So do I, my dear; but you have not answered my question.”“Oh! ah! well! he is vulgar, grotesque, and is as disagreeable as the rain.”“Quite so,” said my mother; “but again that is not the point. Does he please you when viewed as a sober, steady, desirable husband?”“I won’t say he does not,” and I burst into tears.“Come, no nonsense,” said my mother; “I know you would like to be married, and this Bull-dog has many advantages. His double position as clarionet and trombone to the parish secures for him a comfortable living. What more can one require of a husband? I think, my child, that physical beauty and grace are only fleeting, besides you yourself have beauty enough and to spare to adorn a whole family. It is by the intelligent union of opposite natures that conjugal felicity is best secured. Well, that being so, it becomes a positive advantage for you to acquire a thoroughly ugly husband, a heavy, taciturn, serious, hard-working husband, who is certain to be a model of economy and affection.”I saw at a glance that my mother was right, and gave my consent. Had it all to be done over again, I think now I should do exactly as I did then. A sure, steady husband is a great prize in life. It is always good to have bread on the shelf, and one must be very stupid indeed not to be able to get little luxuries.I therefore said: “Let us marry!”Do not human beings say: “Let us take our degree; it will be the making of us.”To say my honeymoon was long and delightful, or that I discovered a hitherto unknown mine of devotion and romance beneath the hard crust of my husband’s unsightly exterior, would be simply fiction. It is much nearer the mark to say at once that the coarsenature of my spouse soon revealed itself in all its odiousness. His every look, every movement, wounded my refined susceptibility. He rose at daybreak, and awoke me with the snorting of his clarionet, which he played with that degree of obstinacy and labour which belongs to mediocrity.“Softly, my dear, softly; I tell you it would be better so,” I would say.He strove with all his might to modulate the notes, but for all that his tenderest passages made everything tremble. I even shook with rage! What irritated me most was that his instrument monopolised his whole attention.“Won’t you take a walk? have a little fresh air?” I would say to him. “You must feel tired, dear.”I could have beaten him. When we walked out together he used to stop and gossip at all the street corners, turning up all sorts of filthy heaps. Oh, how he made me suffer; he was born to be a butcher’s dog. How many times has he not left me to pick up a bone, or quarrel with some inoffensive dog? His loud laugh and vulgar conversation with ill-conditioned curs, and . . .I began to hate him; he bothered me, irritated me beyond measure. I own he would have cut himself in quarters to make our home happy, and he worked like a slave. But, alas! money can never compensate for a badly-assorted match. Little by little I withdrew myself from his company, and took to loitering about alone. I frequented a public garden, the resort of the aristocratic world, where every one was seen to advantage. My delight knew no bounds when I discovered that I was much noticed. I had found my own set at last.One day I remember walking along a shady alley when I heard a voice whisper, “Oh, madam, how happy would he be who, in the midst of the crowd, could attract your attention.” These words, so respectfully uttered, and so full of a something, a sort of passionate earnestness, pleased me immensely. I turned and beheld a well-dressed, beautiful insect flying near me. His manner was so graceful and his flight so fashionable, that I at once perceived he had moved in the higher circles of the air-istocracy; besides, he seemed to me to know his value, and to account himself a very fine fellow indeed.“Ah, Greyhound!” he said, “how beautiful you are. What a fine head you have—a true type of the classic. Your feet would hardlysoil a lily-leaf. Your silky dress, too, is so simple; yet it is enough to set off such charms as yours.”I quickened my pace, trembling at the audacity of this polished flatterer. Still he followed, and his voice vibrated in my ear likedelicious music. He had evidently no ordinary appreciation of the beautiful.“You are married, sweet one?” he added.I could not resist the temptation of fancying that my fetters were broken, so I replied gaily, “No, I am a widow, sir!”I saw no harm in this flirtation. What danger was there, after all, in the fact that an insect thought me pretty, and expressed his admiration? It cannot be too well impressed, upon all whom it may concern, that beauty must be appreciated; the public gaze is the sun, which warms it into bloom, and sustains its vitality; cold indifference first mars, and then destroys it. Our coquetry simply expresses a natural craving for being seen, a thoroughly honest and respectable ambition. I had no shade of guilty intention, or exaggerated pride; it was only the consciousness of a tribute, paid daily by the sun to the flower which opens to display its charms to the heavenly gaze. I looked upon this tribute of the world as my right. To prove that I was the most virtuous greyhound in Paris, I felt intoxicated by the words of my new admirer.“Your eyes are terribly bright,” said my husband on my return home. He was polishing a bone in a corner of our kennel—where he had picked it up, I do not know—“your voice is sweeter than usual.”“To please you, my eyes must grow dim and my voice husky,” I replied.Nothing is more galling than these simple remarks some people are always making, and asking why you detest them. My spouse was growing more and more distasteful to me. The trouble he takes to please me is most annoying. I hate to profit by his ridiculous labour, to eat his bread; all the time thinking that I owe it to the infernal clarionet he plays so badly. His irritating temper is killing me, his unutterable calm and absolute self-control compel me to shut up within myself all my bad temper, my indignation, my scorn! This sort of thing is perfectly frightful when one is nervous.Life became a burden, and the polished insect soon found it out, for he followed me about with his dreamy, delicious buzzing.“Greyhound, you are unhappy! you are suffering! I feel it, I see it. Grief ought not to touch a heart so tender,” he said in tones so pathetic, that I looked upon him as a deliverer.“Care will line your forehead and tarnish your beauty!”I shuddered. What he said was, alas! too true, anxiety wouldcertainly rob me of my charms, clog my steps, and veil my eyes. His words kindled my wrath against my husband, who would surely bring this grief upon me.“Well,” pursued the insect, “why not amuse yourself, come with me into the woods. Go on in front, and I shall follow, so that I may admire you, and drive away your gloom with my songs. Come, let us fly from the city-throng, and fill our breasts with the pure air of the fields.”I was choking; air I must have, air at any price. “To-morrow at such an hour, be at such a place, and we shall go out together.”It must not be thought, that by granting a rendezvous to this insect, I yielded to foolish sentiment. I simply did it to oblige him, because he rendered justice to my charms, and spoke ceaselessly about me.When I reached home that evening, I suppose my face must have expressed more than usual disgust, for my musician stood looking at me for several minutes without uttering a single word, and then two large tears rolled down his cheeks; he was grotesque. Nothing is more dreadful than an ugly animal, who adds to his ugliness the horrors of grief. I expected a scene and reproaches, my heart swelled within me, as I said to myself, “Let him but speak, get angry, curse me; I will do the same, and oppose anger to anger. Passion is like a storm, when it has burst and is over, it refreshes the earth. I began to sing snatches of songs, like little bits of forked lightning, to bring about the crisis. But he did nothing, and said nothing, two or three times he sniffed badly, and carefully placing his clarionet in its dirty case, put on his cap, andsaid—“Good night, my dear, I am going to the theatre.”What did these tears mean; did he think that he was odious to me? He did not seem jealous; how could he be so? was I not the most irreproachable, and, at the same time, most miserable of wives? Oh, if I had only something to break, scratch, or bite! How he does make me suffer!Next day at the appointed hour, we met at our rendezvous. My fine companion, who had been impatiently waiting for me, exclaimed, “How beautiful you are! let us start for the woods.”“Yes,” I replied, quite flattered, “I am ready.”So off we started. Although my mind was made up, a certain foreboding of evil troubled me. I could not throw it off. It occurred to me that I had gone too far, and was approaching the edge of a volcano.“What is the matter, dear?” said the insect.“Do you not see those ambulating musicians over there at that window?”“Yes; they are showing performing Beetles to the inmates of the house. It seems to me they have to work hard for a living.”“Doubtless, but I am afraid, they look so strange. Please let us go some round-about way; I am trembling.”We followed a street to the left, and continued our course, yet I felt uneasy. It was a presentiment, for that day I had one of the most disagreeable meetings imaginable. We were just emerging from the suburbs when I descried in a corner an obscure mass, which turned out to be one of those performing Bears who figure at fairs and markets. He was making a Tortoise go through all sorts of wonderful exercises. Nothing was more natural than to meet this Bear, and yet I shivered all over. As my fears seemed unfounded, we continued to advance, and came close to the performer. The keen eye of this monster shot forth fire, and he sprang forward to bar my way.“What are you doing here, madam?” he exclaimed, crossing his arms.“Pray what does it matter to you what madam is doing here?” said my protector. “On my honour you are a bold fellow. Who are you, I pray? Speak! Who are you?”“Who am I?” he breathed heavily. “I am the husband of this lady.”Saying which, he threw off the bearskin disguise, and revealed the clarionet, the musician, the Bull dog, my husband, in fact, pale as death and a prey to horrible passion. He was frightful; although, to tell the truth, I liked him better excited, furious, grinding his teeth with rage, than calm and resigned, with tears in his eyes. He was really not so ugly as usual. Unfortunately the picture was spoilt by the cap which he kept on his head. That was a fault not to be pardoned. Readers of the opposite sex will hardly understand how it is that no detail escapes us.“Madam,” said my husband gravely.This was another defect of his, to be grave! It was evident that he had prepared a speech, and weighed its effects. The insect hidden behind my ear said in a low voice: “What! is it possible, my queen of beauty, that you are married to this brute?”I blushed to the tip of my nose.“Madam,” continued my master.“Mada”—Here he sneezed in the most comical manner. Perhaps a hair of the bearskin had got lodged in his nose. I laughed loudly, and quite as involuntarily as he had sneezed.“Madam, follow me,” continued my husband, quite losing his head. “This is too much; follow me!”“I advise him not to touch you,” said my protector, still hiding behind my ear; “as I really think I should not be responsible for my actions. I feel savage!”He had not time to finish his sentence. My husband, as quick as lightning, seized him as he was flying, and mutilated him horribly. I do not know what followed. I became mad, and by a violent effort disengaged myself from my husband’s paws, and jumping over his head, started off. I soon turned to look back, and saw the Bull-dog struggling with the police, making desperate efforts to get free, but the bearskin got entangled about his feet, and paralysed his movements, and at last he was carried off prisoner, followed by a jeering crowd.So, I reflected, I am free; and pursued my way. The pure bracing air and deep blue of the sky had lost their charm. My breast was filled with indignation. I felt humiliated by this absurd jealousy, this scandalous outburst at once comic and tragic. The comic element annoyed me most. This prosaic clarionet appearing all at once upon the scene to dispel the dream of my life—can he ever be forgiven? After wandering about till I was giddy, I bent my steps homeward, and on entering found the place empty. It seemed to me I had lost something or some one. In truth, the deserted kennel filled me with strange longings for my poor husband. One gets used even to ugly, awkward things. If camels were at one fell swoop deprived of their humps, they would feel strange without them.At this moment a letter was handed to me, ornamented with an imposing seal. It was an invitation from the authorities to be present at my husband’s examination. The disguise in which he had been found, as well as a weapon discovered in his shoe, told badly against him.Next day after breakfast—I had risen very late—and after finishing my toilet set out for prison to cheer my husband. It proved a great trial to my nerves. I passed through damp, dark corridors, enormous keys grating in horrible locks; heavy doors barred with iron wereopened, and I entered a place crowded by miserable, ill-conditioned, dirty, repulsive animals.Picking my steps into the midst of this filthy den, afraid to breathethe vitiated air, I beheld my husband seated in a corner. Expecting reproaches and a tragic scene, I held myself in readiness to stand my ground. But contrary to my expectations he lay down at my feet and sobbed, begging my forgiveness.I was quite touched—although the scene afforded amusement to the other prisoners—and resolved to do my best to obtain his release. I am naturally tender-hearted, too much so indeed. It was most proper on his part, that he owned his faults and ugliness, and rendered homage to my beauty.I went at once to the presiding judge, who, viewing me over his spectacles, was astonished at my attractive appearance. He was clever, amiable, and leisurely, so that the trial of my husband lasted a long time.Now is the moment when I must own a strange fact, and let in the light on a hitherto dark recess in my heart. Hardly was my Bull-dog incarcerated than my hatred of him changed to affection. He was no longer there for me to grumble at, and every time my eyes caught his clarionet in the corner they filled with tears. I was almost frightened at the power this morally and physically imperfect creature had over me, and the place he had filled in my life. His comical face, his cap, even his silence were wanting. I never knew where to vent my bad temper, which at times made me feel fit to burst. I tried to distract my attention, fearing lest my health should give way, but it was of no avail. I hardly dare to say it, I loved my Bull-dog, the jealous clarionet, I loved him! For all that, consideration for my feelings prevented me repeating my visit to the noxious prison which caused me a dreadful attack of neuralgia.Thanks to my keeping him out of sight, his image became idealised in my imagination. In my dreams he appeared clothed in charms not his own. The news of his release was such a shock to my nerves that I nearly fainted. I rejoiced in his freedom. Soon after he arrived, but oh dear, how ugly he was! His coat was dirty, and his whole being steeped in an odour most offensive. A block of ice had fallen on my heart.“My Greyhound! my wife! my darling!” he cried, running to meet me.“Good morning, my friend,” I replied, averting my nose. I had no courage to say more, my dreams had vanished.All this passed long ago. Now my indignation brings the smile to my lips. Nothing more. I have learned to make the most of mybargain. If I made a mistake, and married a clarionet in place of a first-class tenor, I determined not to die of grief, but rather to be as brave as beautiful, and devote myself to cultivating all that was good in my Bull-dog. He has left off wearing his cap, and positively plays better; his walk is improved, and, by the dim light of the lamp, his profile is marked by a certain character.“How pretty you are, little heartless one,” he sometimes says. I reply in the same tone, “How ugly you are, my fat jealous one.”

THE theatre has always had a peculiar charm for me, and yet there are few persons who have greater reason to hold it in utter abhorrence, for it was there at about nine o’clock one evening that I first beheld my husband. As you may well suppose every detail of our meeting is indelibly fixed in my mind. I have indeed many grave reasons for not forgetting it. In all frankness, I wish to accuse no one, but I was never meant for married life. Elegant, attractive, fitted only to revel in the pleasures of the world, and feast on the joys of a great life, space, luxury, brilliancy, were necessary to me. I was born to be a duchess, and married—O heavens! the first clarionet player at the Dogs’ theatre. It was a serious joke! Was it not? It has moved me to laughter times without number. Yes! he really played the clarionet every evening from eight to eleven, the easy parts too, at least, he told me so. I daresay it was not true for I never found that he played false to me.

During the day he was second trombone to the parish of dogs, and above all, his greatest ambition was a hat in the National Guards.

These details may seem grotesque. Pray forgive me if they are, as I only wish to discharge my duty.

One evening when I was at the theatre, I noticed between the acts a big burly dog in the orchestra wearing spectacles, a cap, and blowing his nose in a checked cotton handkerchief. He made so much noise that all heads were turned towards him. Had any one said that that creature would be my future husband I should not have replied. I should have treated the remark with silent contempt. Yet under the most embarrassing circumstances, with all eyes turned upon him, and amid a peal of laughter my future spouse slowly and carefully folded his handkerchief, looking at the company over his spectacles, at the sametime changing the mouthpiece of his instrument with a calmness perfectly charming to behold. This singular proof ofsang-froidcaused me to turn my eye-glass upon him. He no doubt remarked this movement, for he immediately took off his cap, adjusted the short hair on his big head, replaced his spectacles, settled his tie, and pulled down his waistcoat. There is no monster, however ugly, who would not do the same, in his position. His eye which caught mine seemed to me most brilliant.

There was as little doubt of his ugliness as of his strange emotion. I was young, silly and coquettish, so it amused me to be looked at like this. The chief mounted his throne and the music commenced anew. The fat clarionet player cast a last glance at me, and then pulled himself together for work. He had started a trifle behind-hand, and galloped over his part to make up for lost time—turning over two pages at once, and running up and down with his big fingers on his unfortunate pipe, producing the most hideous snortings imaginable—the conductor, red as a peony flower, called to him in the midst of the noise menacing him with his bow. His neighbours pushed him, trod on his toes, hooted him, and showered invectives on his head, but he calmly pursued his notes, no doubt blowing through his pipe a hurricane of rage. Knowing I was the sole cause of the delirium I felt flattered; I pitied and loved him! After about a quarter of an hour he stopped, and placing his clarionet between his legs, proceeded to rub his round head with his cotton handkerchief.

On leaving the play, at about half-past eleven, it rained slightly, and on passing the stage entrance we were nearly knocked down by an individual wearing a white hairy hat. I can still see him coming out of the door and bearing down upon us—I say us, because my mother was with me; I had not yet ventured to the theatre alone.

“Ladies,” cried the Bull-dog, “you have, I daresay, already guessed that the white hat shelters the clarionet. Ladies, stop for heaven’s sake!”

“Why? how? How dare you accost us in this manner; stand on one side, sir, stand on one side!” said my mother with a lofty air.

Before such a show of nobility the musician stammered, only taking off his hat. “It rains, ladies, and you have no umbrella, deign to accept mine.”

My mother who has always been careful, feared water quite as much as she did fire, and accordingly was fain to accept this umbrella, never dreaming that it would lead me to the altar of Hymen.

I purposely refrain from dwelling on details as uninteresting to the reader as they are irritating to myself. The bold musician taking advantage of the introduction afforded by an unlucky shower of rain had paid us several visits, when at last my mother said to me,

“Eliza, tell me frankly, what do you think of him?”

“Who, mamma?” I said inquiringly; “the musician?”

“Yes, little rogue, the clarionet, the young Bull-dog who wants your hand. You know quite well I am speaking of him.”

“But, mamma, I find him so horribly ugly.”

“So do I, my dear; but you have not answered my question.”

“Oh! ah! well! he is vulgar, grotesque, and is as disagreeable as the rain.”

“Quite so,” said my mother; “but again that is not the point. Does he please you when viewed as a sober, steady, desirable husband?”

“I won’t say he does not,” and I burst into tears.

“Come, no nonsense,” said my mother; “I know you would like to be married, and this Bull-dog has many advantages. His double position as clarionet and trombone to the parish secures for him a comfortable living. What more can one require of a husband? I think, my child, that physical beauty and grace are only fleeting, besides you yourself have beauty enough and to spare to adorn a whole family. It is by the intelligent union of opposite natures that conjugal felicity is best secured. Well, that being so, it becomes a positive advantage for you to acquire a thoroughly ugly husband, a heavy, taciturn, serious, hard-working husband, who is certain to be a model of economy and affection.”

I saw at a glance that my mother was right, and gave my consent. Had it all to be done over again, I think now I should do exactly as I did then. A sure, steady husband is a great prize in life. It is always good to have bread on the shelf, and one must be very stupid indeed not to be able to get little luxuries.

I therefore said: “Let us marry!”

Do not human beings say: “Let us take our degree; it will be the making of us.”

To say my honeymoon was long and delightful, or that I discovered a hitherto unknown mine of devotion and romance beneath the hard crust of my husband’s unsightly exterior, would be simply fiction. It is much nearer the mark to say at once that the coarsenature of my spouse soon revealed itself in all its odiousness. His every look, every movement, wounded my refined susceptibility. He rose at daybreak, and awoke me with the snorting of his clarionet, which he played with that degree of obstinacy and labour which belongs to mediocrity.

“Softly, my dear, softly; I tell you it would be better so,” I would say.

He strove with all his might to modulate the notes, but for all that his tenderest passages made everything tremble. I even shook with rage! What irritated me most was that his instrument monopolised his whole attention.

“Won’t you take a walk? have a little fresh air?” I would say to him. “You must feel tired, dear.”

I could have beaten him. When we walked out together he used to stop and gossip at all the street corners, turning up all sorts of filthy heaps. Oh, how he made me suffer; he was born to be a butcher’s dog. How many times has he not left me to pick up a bone, or quarrel with some inoffensive dog? His loud laugh and vulgar conversation with ill-conditioned curs, and . . .

I began to hate him; he bothered me, irritated me beyond measure. I own he would have cut himself in quarters to make our home happy, and he worked like a slave. But, alas! money can never compensate for a badly-assorted match. Little by little I withdrew myself from his company, and took to loitering about alone. I frequented a public garden, the resort of the aristocratic world, where every one was seen to advantage. My delight knew no bounds when I discovered that I was much noticed. I had found my own set at last.

One day I remember walking along a shady alley when I heard a voice whisper, “Oh, madam, how happy would he be who, in the midst of the crowd, could attract your attention.” These words, so respectfully uttered, and so full of a something, a sort of passionate earnestness, pleased me immensely. I turned and beheld a well-dressed, beautiful insect flying near me. His manner was so graceful and his flight so fashionable, that I at once perceived he had moved in the higher circles of the air-istocracy; besides, he seemed to me to know his value, and to account himself a very fine fellow indeed.

“Ah, Greyhound!” he said, “how beautiful you are. What a fine head you have—a true type of the classic. Your feet would hardlysoil a lily-leaf. Your silky dress, too, is so simple; yet it is enough to set off such charms as yours.”

I quickened my pace, trembling at the audacity of this polished flatterer. Still he followed, and his voice vibrated in my ear likedelicious music. He had evidently no ordinary appreciation of the beautiful.

“You are married, sweet one?” he added.

I could not resist the temptation of fancying that my fetters were broken, so I replied gaily, “No, I am a widow, sir!”

I saw no harm in this flirtation. What danger was there, after all, in the fact that an insect thought me pretty, and expressed his admiration? It cannot be too well impressed, upon all whom it may concern, that beauty must be appreciated; the public gaze is the sun, which warms it into bloom, and sustains its vitality; cold indifference first mars, and then destroys it. Our coquetry simply expresses a natural craving for being seen, a thoroughly honest and respectable ambition. I had no shade of guilty intention, or exaggerated pride; it was only the consciousness of a tribute, paid daily by the sun to the flower which opens to display its charms to the heavenly gaze. I looked upon this tribute of the world as my right. To prove that I was the most virtuous greyhound in Paris, I felt intoxicated by the words of my new admirer.

“Your eyes are terribly bright,” said my husband on my return home. He was polishing a bone in a corner of our kennel—where he had picked it up, I do not know—“your voice is sweeter than usual.”

“To please you, my eyes must grow dim and my voice husky,” I replied.

Nothing is more galling than these simple remarks some people are always making, and asking why you detest them. My spouse was growing more and more distasteful to me. The trouble he takes to please me is most annoying. I hate to profit by his ridiculous labour, to eat his bread; all the time thinking that I owe it to the infernal clarionet he plays so badly. His irritating temper is killing me, his unutterable calm and absolute self-control compel me to shut up within myself all my bad temper, my indignation, my scorn! This sort of thing is perfectly frightful when one is nervous.

Life became a burden, and the polished insect soon found it out, for he followed me about with his dreamy, delicious buzzing.

“Greyhound, you are unhappy! you are suffering! I feel it, I see it. Grief ought not to touch a heart so tender,” he said in tones so pathetic, that I looked upon him as a deliverer.

“Care will line your forehead and tarnish your beauty!”

I shuddered. What he said was, alas! too true, anxiety wouldcertainly rob me of my charms, clog my steps, and veil my eyes. His words kindled my wrath against my husband, who would surely bring this grief upon me.

“Well,” pursued the insect, “why not amuse yourself, come with me into the woods. Go on in front, and I shall follow, so that I may admire you, and drive away your gloom with my songs. Come, let us fly from the city-throng, and fill our breasts with the pure air of the fields.”

I was choking; air I must have, air at any price. “To-morrow at such an hour, be at such a place, and we shall go out together.”

It must not be thought, that by granting a rendezvous to this insect, I yielded to foolish sentiment. I simply did it to oblige him, because he rendered justice to my charms, and spoke ceaselessly about me.

When I reached home that evening, I suppose my face must have expressed more than usual disgust, for my musician stood looking at me for several minutes without uttering a single word, and then two large tears rolled down his cheeks; he was grotesque. Nothing is more dreadful than an ugly animal, who adds to his ugliness the horrors of grief. I expected a scene and reproaches, my heart swelled within me, as I said to myself, “Let him but speak, get angry, curse me; I will do the same, and oppose anger to anger. Passion is like a storm, when it has burst and is over, it refreshes the earth. I began to sing snatches of songs, like little bits of forked lightning, to bring about the crisis. But he did nothing, and said nothing, two or three times he sniffed badly, and carefully placing his clarionet in its dirty case, put on his cap, andsaid—

“Good night, my dear, I am going to the theatre.”

What did these tears mean; did he think that he was odious to me? He did not seem jealous; how could he be so? was I not the most irreproachable, and, at the same time, most miserable of wives? Oh, if I had only something to break, scratch, or bite! How he does make me suffer!

Next day at the appointed hour, we met at our rendezvous. My fine companion, who had been impatiently waiting for me, exclaimed, “How beautiful you are! let us start for the woods.”

“Yes,” I replied, quite flattered, “I am ready.”

So off we started. Although my mind was made up, a certain foreboding of evil troubled me. I could not throw it off. It occurred to me that I had gone too far, and was approaching the edge of a volcano.

“What is the matter, dear?” said the insect.

“Do you not see those ambulating musicians over there at that window?”

“Yes; they are showing performing Beetles to the inmates of the house. It seems to me they have to work hard for a living.”

“Doubtless, but I am afraid, they look so strange. Please let us go some round-about way; I am trembling.”

We followed a street to the left, and continued our course, yet I felt uneasy. It was a presentiment, for that day I had one of the most disagreeable meetings imaginable. We were just emerging from the suburbs when I descried in a corner an obscure mass, which turned out to be one of those performing Bears who figure at fairs and markets. He was making a Tortoise go through all sorts of wonderful exercises. Nothing was more natural than to meet this Bear, and yet I shivered all over. As my fears seemed unfounded, we continued to advance, and came close to the performer. The keen eye of this monster shot forth fire, and he sprang forward to bar my way.

“What are you doing here, madam?” he exclaimed, crossing his arms.

“Pray what does it matter to you what madam is doing here?” said my protector. “On my honour you are a bold fellow. Who are you, I pray? Speak! Who are you?”

“Who am I?” he breathed heavily. “I am the husband of this lady.”

Saying which, he threw off the bearskin disguise, and revealed the clarionet, the musician, the Bull dog, my husband, in fact, pale as death and a prey to horrible passion. He was frightful; although, to tell the truth, I liked him better excited, furious, grinding his teeth with rage, than calm and resigned, with tears in his eyes. He was really not so ugly as usual. Unfortunately the picture was spoilt by the cap which he kept on his head. That was a fault not to be pardoned. Readers of the opposite sex will hardly understand how it is that no detail escapes us.

“Madam,” said my husband gravely.

This was another defect of his, to be grave! It was evident that he had prepared a speech, and weighed its effects. The insect hidden behind my ear said in a low voice: “What! is it possible, my queen of beauty, that you are married to this brute?”

I blushed to the tip of my nose.

“Madam,” continued my master.“Mada”—

Here he sneezed in the most comical manner. Perhaps a hair of the bearskin had got lodged in his nose. I laughed loudly, and quite as involuntarily as he had sneezed.

“Madam, follow me,” continued my husband, quite losing his head. “This is too much; follow me!”

“I advise him not to touch you,” said my protector, still hiding behind my ear; “as I really think I should not be responsible for my actions. I feel savage!”

He had not time to finish his sentence. My husband, as quick as lightning, seized him as he was flying, and mutilated him horribly. I do not know what followed. I became mad, and by a violent effort disengaged myself from my husband’s paws, and jumping over his head, started off. I soon turned to look back, and saw the Bull-dog struggling with the police, making desperate efforts to get free, but the bearskin got entangled about his feet, and paralysed his movements, and at last he was carried off prisoner, followed by a jeering crowd.

So, I reflected, I am free; and pursued my way. The pure bracing air and deep blue of the sky had lost their charm. My breast was filled with indignation. I felt humiliated by this absurd jealousy, this scandalous outburst at once comic and tragic. The comic element annoyed me most. This prosaic clarionet appearing all at once upon the scene to dispel the dream of my life—can he ever be forgiven? After wandering about till I was giddy, I bent my steps homeward, and on entering found the place empty. It seemed to me I had lost something or some one. In truth, the deserted kennel filled me with strange longings for my poor husband. One gets used even to ugly, awkward things. If camels were at one fell swoop deprived of their humps, they would feel strange without them.

At this moment a letter was handed to me, ornamented with an imposing seal. It was an invitation from the authorities to be present at my husband’s examination. The disguise in which he had been found, as well as a weapon discovered in his shoe, told badly against him.

Next day after breakfast—I had risen very late—and after finishing my toilet set out for prison to cheer my husband. It proved a great trial to my nerves. I passed through damp, dark corridors, enormous keys grating in horrible locks; heavy doors barred with iron wereopened, and I entered a place crowded by miserable, ill-conditioned, dirty, repulsive animals.

Picking my steps into the midst of this filthy den, afraid to breathethe vitiated air, I beheld my husband seated in a corner. Expecting reproaches and a tragic scene, I held myself in readiness to stand my ground. But contrary to my expectations he lay down at my feet and sobbed, begging my forgiveness.

I was quite touched—although the scene afforded amusement to the other prisoners—and resolved to do my best to obtain his release. I am naturally tender-hearted, too much so indeed. It was most proper on his part, that he owned his faults and ugliness, and rendered homage to my beauty.

I went at once to the presiding judge, who, viewing me over his spectacles, was astonished at my attractive appearance. He was clever, amiable, and leisurely, so that the trial of my husband lasted a long time.

Now is the moment when I must own a strange fact, and let in the light on a hitherto dark recess in my heart. Hardly was my Bull-dog incarcerated than my hatred of him changed to affection. He was no longer there for me to grumble at, and every time my eyes caught his clarionet in the corner they filled with tears. I was almost frightened at the power this morally and physically imperfect creature had over me, and the place he had filled in my life. His comical face, his cap, even his silence were wanting. I never knew where to vent my bad temper, which at times made me feel fit to burst. I tried to distract my attention, fearing lest my health should give way, but it was of no avail. I hardly dare to say it, I loved my Bull-dog, the jealous clarionet, I loved him! For all that, consideration for my feelings prevented me repeating my visit to the noxious prison which caused me a dreadful attack of neuralgia.

Thanks to my keeping him out of sight, his image became idealised in my imagination. In my dreams he appeared clothed in charms not his own. The news of his release was such a shock to my nerves that I nearly fainted. I rejoiced in his freedom. Soon after he arrived, but oh dear, how ugly he was! His coat was dirty, and his whole being steeped in an odour most offensive. A block of ice had fallen on my heart.

“My Greyhound! my wife! my darling!” he cried, running to meet me.

“Good morning, my friend,” I replied, averting my nose. I had no courage to say more, my dreams had vanished.

All this passed long ago. Now my indignation brings the smile to my lips. Nothing more. I have learned to make the most of mybargain. If I made a mistake, and married a clarionet in place of a first-class tenor, I determined not to die of grief, but rather to be as brave as beautiful, and devote myself to cultivating all that was good in my Bull-dog. He has left off wearing his cap, and positively plays better; his walk is improved, and, by the dim light of the lamp, his profile is marked by a certain character.

“How pretty you are, little heartless one,” he sometimes says. I reply in the same tone, “How ugly you are, my fat jealous one.”

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