FERNANDE. "Spare me. I was a pretty waiter-girl, but I wrote you a
letter and confessed my innocence."

(_She faints on a worsted ottoman, while her husband raves like an_
OTTOMAN _who has been worsted in a difficulty with an intruder into his
harem.) Enter_ POMMEROL.

POMMEROL. "She speaks the truth. Here is her written confession. I took
it out of CLOTILDE's pocket. I will read it." (_Reads it._)

FERNANDE. "You hear it? I confessed all my innocence. If you did not get
it, blame the post-office authorities, but do not throw the poker at
me."

ANDRE. "FERNANDE! My love! My wife! Come back, and I will forgive your
innocence!" (_Tableau._) _Curtain._

RESPECTABLE MATRON. "Well, I will say that of all indecent plays this is
the worst. It isn't half as nice as that pretty _Frou-Frou_. The idea of
that miserable ANDRE forgiving such a hussy as his wife!"

From which virtuous and venomous opinion the undersigned begs to differ.
The play is simply superb, in spite of the faults of the translation. It
is shocking only to the most prurient of prudes; and in point of
morality is infinitely better than _Frou-Frou_. And then it is played as
it ought to be. Miss MORANT is magnificent, Mr. LEWIS is immensely
funny, and Messrs. CLARKE and HASKINS are equal to whatever is required
of them. If _Frou-Frou_ ran a hundred nights, _Fernande_ ought to run
five hundred. And that it may is the sincere hope of