boarding-school before taking possession of his leather-covered chair at the department. You, madame, have not the time to stop and think of your grievances, and the day is all too short for one who has so much to do. And withal, never the least amusement! During all the past year you have been at the play but once, and that was last September, when you went to see the Domino Noir on free tickets.
You have accepted the situation and are resigned to your fate, doubtless; but that old polka that the organ keeps relentlessly playing reminds you that the other afternoon, as you were pushing before you the little carriage containing your slumbering baby, just as you are doing now, and pursuing your way along this same boulevard, you came near being run over by a spanking victoria and pair and recognized, well protected by his comfortable wraps, that identical M. Frédéric, the same as of old, with that air of unfailing youthfulness that is the property of the fortunate ones of this world, and he cast an ugly look at you as he shouted: "Stupid!" to his coachman.
Truly, that organ is insupportable, is it not?—It ceases, however, fortunately, and now the night is coming down. At the extremity of the dismal suburban boulevard, yonder, the gas-jets as they spring into light sprinkle with their pale stars the purple mist that follows close upon the sunset. It is time to return, Madame Jules. Your second son must have come in from school by this, and he never masters his morrow's lessons before, dinner unless you are there. Go home, Madame Jules. Your husband will soon be back from his office, tired and hungry, and you know full well that in your absence the small maid at twenty-five
