



Produced by Dagny; and John Bickers





                    PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE

                             PART SECOND

                                  BY

                           HONORE DE BALZAC



                               PREFACE

  If, reader, you have grasped the intent of this book,--and
  infinite honor is done you by the supposition: the profoundest
  author does not always comprehend, I may say never comprehends,
  the different meanings of his book, nor its bearing, nor the good
  nor the harm it may do--if, then, you have bestowed some attention
  upon these little scenes of married life, you have perhaps noticed
  their color--

  "What color?" some grocer will doubtless ask; "books are bound in
  yellow, blue, green, pearl-gray, white--"

  Alas! books possess another color, they are dyed by the author,
  and certain writers borrow their dye. Some books let their color
  come off on to others. More than this. Books are dark or fair,
  light brown or red. They have a sex, too! I know of male books,
  and female books, of books which, sad to say, have no sex, which
  we hope is not the case with this one, supposing that you do this
  collection of nosographic sketches the honor of calling it a book.

  Thus far, the troubles we have described have been exclusively
  inflicted by the wife upon the husband. You have therefore seen
  only the masculine side of the book. And if the author really has
  the sense of hearing for which we give him credit, he has already
  caught more than one indignant exclamation or remonstrance:

  "He tells us of nothing but vexations suffered by our husbands, as
  if we didn't have our petty troubles, too!"

  Oh, women! You have been heard, for if you do not always make
  yourselves understood, you are always sure to make yourselves
  heard.

  It would therefore be signally unjust to lay upon you alone the
  reproaches that every being brought under the yoke (_conjugium_)
  has the right to heap upon that necessary, sacred, useful,
  eminently conservative institution,--one, however, that is often
  somewhat of an encumbrance, and tight about the joints, though
  sometimes it is also too loose there.

  I will go further! Such partiality would be a piece of idiocy.

  A man,--not a writer, for in a writer there are many men,--an
  author, rather, should resemble Janus, see behind and before,
  become a spy, examine an idea in all its phases, delve alternately
  into the soul of Alceste and into that of Philaenete, know
  everything though he does not tell it, never be tiresome, and--

  We will not conclude this programme, for we should tell the whole,
  and that would be frightful for those who reflect upon the present
  condition of literature.

  Furthermore, an author who speaks for himself in the middle of his
  book, resembles the old fellow in "The Speaking Picture," when he
  puts his face in the hole cut in the painting. The author does not
  forget that in the Chamber, no one can take the floor _between two
  votes_. Enough, therefore!

  Here follows the female portion of the book: for, to resemble
  marriage perfectly, it ought to be more or less hermaphroditic.





                    PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE



                   HUSBANDS DURING THE SECOND MONTH.

Two young married women, Caroline and Stephanie, who had been early
friends at M'lle Machefer's boarding school, one of the most
celebrated educational institutions in the Faubourg St. Honore, met at
a ball given by Madame de Fischtaminel, and the following conversation
took place in a window-seat in the boudoir.

It was so hot that a man had acted upon the idea of going to breathe
the fresh night air, some time before the two young women. He had
