dozing over the 'Revue des Deux Mondes', and I find you snoring over the
'Moniteur'. In your place I should vary my literature. I am sure you
have taken my hot-water bottle."

"I have been doing wrong. I will subscribe to the 'Tintamarre' in
future. Come, good-night, my dear." He turns over. "Hello, your hot-
water bottle is right at the bottom of the bed; I can feel it with the
tips of my toes."

"Well, push it up; do you think that I can dive down there after it?"

"Shall I ring for your maid to help you?" He makes a movement of ill-
temper, pulls the clothes up to his chin, and buries his head in the
pillow. "Goodnight, my dear."

Madame, somewhat vexed, says: "Good-night, goodnight."

The respiration of Monsieur grows smooth, and even his brows relax, his
forehead becomes calm, he is on the point of losing all consciousness of
the realities of this life.

Madame taps lightly on her husband's shoulder.

"Hum," growls Monsieur.

Madame taps again.

"Well, what is it?"

Madame, in an angelic tone of voice, "My dear, would you put out the