This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D.W.]
By GUSTAVE DROZ
When midnight strikes, when the embers die away into ashes, when the lampburns more feebly and your eyes close in spite of yourself, the bestthing to do, dear Madame, is to go to bed.
Get up from your armchair, take off your bracelets, light yourrosecolored taper, and proceed slowly, to the soft accompaniment of yourtrailing skirt, rustling across the carpet, to your dressing-room, thatperfumed sanctuary in which your beauty, knowing itself to be alone,raises its veils, indulges in self-examination, revels in itself andreckons up its treasures as a miser does his wealth.
Before the muslin-framed mirror, which reveals all that it sees so well,you pause carelessly and with a smile give one long satisfied look, thenwith two fingers you withdraw the pin that kept up your hair, and itslong, fair tresses unroll and fall in waves, veiling your bare shoulders.With a coquettish hand, the little finger of which is turned up, youcaress, as you gather them together, the golden flood of your abundantlocks, while with the other you pass through them the tortoiseshell combthat buries itself in the depths of this fair forest and bends with theeffort.
Your tresses are so abundant that your little hand can scarcely graspthem. They are so long that your outstretched arm scarcely reaches theirextremity. Hence it is not without difficulty that you manage to twistthem up and imprison them in your embroidered night-cap.
This first duty accomplished, you turn the silver tap, and the pure andlimpid water pours into a large bowl of enamelled porcelain. You throwin a few drops of that fluid which perfumes and softens the skin, andlike a nymph in the depths of a quiet wood preparing for the toilet, youremove the drapery that might encumber you.
But what, Madame, you frown? Have I said too much or not enough? Is itnot well known that you love cold water; and do you think it is notguessed that at the contact of the dripping sponge you quiver from headto foot?
But what matters it, your toilette for the night is completed, you arefresh, restored, and white as a nun in your embroidered dressing-gown,you dart your bare feet into satin slippers and reenter your bedroom,shivering slightly. To see you walking thus with hurried steps, wrappedtightly in your dressing-gown, and with your pretty head hidden in itsnightcap, you might be taken for a little girl leaving the confessionalafter confessing some terrible sin.
Gaining the bedside, Madame lays aside her slippers, and lightly andwithout effort, bounds into the depths of the alcove.
However, Monsieur, who was already asleep with his nose on the Moniteur,suddenly wakes up at the movement imparted to the bed.
"I thought that you were in bed already, dear," he murmurs, falling offto sleep again. "Good-night."
"If I had been in bed you would have noticed it." Madame stretches outher feet and moves them about; she seems to be in quest of something. "Iam not in such a hurry to go to sleep as you are, thank goodness."
Monsieur, suddenly and evidently annoyed, says: "But what is the matter,my