“If I had been in bed you would have noticed it.” Madame stretches out her feet and moves them about; she seems to be in quest of something. “I am 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 dear? You fidget and fidget—I want to sleep.” He turns over as he speaks.
“I fidget! I am simply feeling for my hot-water bottle; you are irritating.”
“Your hot-water bottle?” is Monsieur’s reply, with a grunt.
“Certainly, my hot-water bottle, my feet are frozen.” She goes on feeling for it. “You are really very amiable this evening; you began by dozing over the ‘Revue des Deux Mondes’, and I find you snoring over the ‘Moniteur’. In your place I should vary my literature. I am sure you have taken my hot-water bottle.”
“I have been doing wrong. I will subscribe to the ‘Tintamarre’ in future. Come, good-night, my dear.” He turns over. “Hello, your hot-water bottle is right at the bottom of the bed; I can feel it with the tips of my toes.”
“Well, push it up; do you think that I can dive down there after it?”
“Shall I ring for your maid to help you?” He makes a movement of ill-temper, pulls the clothes up to his chin, and buries his head in the pillow. “Goodnight, my dear.”
Madame, somewhat vexed, says: “Good-night, goodnight.”
The respiration of Monsieur grows smooth, and even his brows relax, his forehead becomes calm, he is on the point of losing all consciousness of the realities of this life.