belonged to a young councillor of state, who was mad with love and
jealousy.

As soon as he learned that there existed a man who was exclusively
occupied in bringing to perfection the institution of marriage in
France, he had the generosity to open the doors of his mansion to me
and to show me his gyneceum. I admired the profound genius which so
cleverly disguised the precautions of almost oriental jealousy under
the elegance of furniture, beauty of carpets and brightness of painted
decorations. I agreed with him that it was impossible for his wife to
render his home a scene of treachery.

"Sir," said I, to this Othello of the council of state who did not
seem to me peculiarly strong in the _haute politique_ of marriage, "I
have no doubt that the viscountess is delighted to live in this little
Paradise; she ought indeed to take prodigious pleasure in it,
especially if you are here often. But the time will come when she will
have had enough of it; for, my dear sir, we grow tired of everything,
even of the sublime. What will you do then, when madame, failing to
find in all your inventions their primitive charm, shall open her
mouth in a yawn, and perhaps make a request with a view to the
exercise of two rights, both of which are indispensable to her
happiness: individual liberty, that is, the privilege of going and
coming according to the caprice of her will; and the liberty of the
press, that is, the privilege of writing and receiving letters without
fear of your censure?"

Scarcely had I said these words when the Vicomte de V----- grasped my
arm tightly and cried: