patiently. My eyes have not closed these two nights past.
Philippe: And what of me? How could I sleep with the din of the trains deafening one's ears?
Maryse: You! You slept. What is more, you even snored...
One reproach of this kind leads to a second like it, and then to a third. And Philippe blunders once again: he lets Maryse know that he has brought along some dossiers connected with his business.
Maryse: What? You brought your work with you? On our honeymoon? Philippe!...
Philippe (heatedly): Yes! In my case I have three dossiers of the utmost importance!
In a flash he draws the chair up to the table, takes the papers out of the case, and begins to turn them over. A train passes. Maryse's sobs mount. But not long goes by before Philippe rises and goes to her, and takes her in his arms.
Maryse: I feel easier now. Perhaps I need the open air. I believe that sitting with you under the trees would do me good. And besides, that way we give the servants a chance to put the room in order. Come along, my dear.
*
The honeymoon ends. The couple settle in the "institute of kissing" we have heard about. And the wife takes to scolding her husband now and again for his conduct at table: showing him how to chew and how to do this and that. She insists that he is in poor health. She goes over to him to feel his stomach.
Philippe: Gently! You have hurt me!
Maryse: What — I barely touched you. Truly, you are not in good health.
*
Then comes the bedroom scene. Here the lover will prove his mettle!
Maryse: Don't throw your clothes here and there into the four corners of the room... What are you trying to do? Surely you don't mean to open the window!
Philippe: You know I need fresh air.
Maryse: True, but do not forget that it is November, and I am afraid I shall catch pneumonia... Never mind, I shall add another blanket.
Philippe: I will not permit any extra blanket on my side; add it on your side only!
*
And a final scene. The lover realizes that his marriage has failed, and so one day, years later, he thinks of a surprise for his wife. The doorbell rings; Maryse opens it and comes back with a bouquet of flowers in her arms.
Maryse: Who do you suppose sent them, Philippe? Today is not my birthday, and there is no card...
Philippe: Can't you guess?
Maryse: Of course not. Can you?
Philippe: I do not guess; I know.
Maryse: You don't mean — that you sent me expensive flowers, in wintertime, without the slightest reason...
Hysterical tears rise to her eyes, and she screams:
Ah, Philippe, you must have been deceiving me!
*
And Mr. Maurois, the expert in the art of love, adds with all gravity: "You perceive, gentlemen, the error of the method this husband followed. I have no further comment to add."
Long live love!
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