Is it advantageous for a man not to know what will please his wife after their marriage?  Some women (this still occurs in the country) are innocent enough to tell promptly what they want and what they like.  But in Paris, nearly every woman feels a kind of enjoyment in seeing a man wistfully obedient to her heart, her desires, her caprices ­three expressions for the same thing! ­and anxiously going round and round, half crazy and desperate, like a dog that has lost his master.

They call this being loved, poor things!  And a good many of them say to themselves, as did Caroline, “How will he manage?”

Adolphe has come to this.  In this situation of things, the worthy and excellent Deschars, that model of the citizen husband, invites the couple known as Adolphe and Caroline to help him and his wife inaugurate a delightful country house.  It is an opportunity that the Deschars have seized upon, the folly of a man of letters, a charming villa upon which he lavished one hundred thousand francs and which has been sold at auction for eleven thousand.  Caroline has a new dress to air, or a hat with a weeping willow plume ­things which a tilbury will set off to a charm.  Little Charles is left with his grandmother.  The servants have a holiday.  The youthful pair start beneath the smile of a blue sky, flecked with milk-while clouds merely to heighten the effect.  They breathe the pure air, through which trots the heavy Norman horse, animated by the influence of spring.  They soon reach Marnes, beyond Ville d’Avray, where the Deschars are spreading themselves in a villa copied from one at Florence, and surrounded by Swiss meadows, though without all the objectionable features of the Alps.

“Dear me! what a delightful thing a country house like this must be!” exclaims Caroline, as she walks in the admirable wood that skirts Marnes and Ville d’Avray.  “It makes your eyes as happy as if they had a heart in them.”

Caroline, having no one to take but Adolphe, takes Adolphe, who becomes her Adolphe again.  And then you should see her run about like a fawn, and act once more the sweet, pretty, innocent, adorable school-girl that she was!  Her braids come down!  She takes off her bonnet, and holds it by the strings!  She is young, pink and white again.  Her eyes smile, her mouth is a pomegranate endowed with sensibility, with a sensibility which seems quite fresh.

“So a country house would please you very much, would it, darling?” says Adolphe, clasping Caroline round the waist, and noticing that she leans upon him as if to show the flexibility of her form.

“What, will you be such a love as to buy me one?  But remember, no extravagance!  Seize an opportunity like the Deschars.”

“To please you and to find out what is likely to give you pleasure, such is the constant study of your own Dolph.”

They are alone, at liberty to call each other their little names of endearment, and run over the whole list of their secret caresses.

“Does he really want to please his little girly?” says Caroline, resting her head on the shoulder of Adolphe, who kisses her forehead, saying to himself, “Gad!  I’ve got her now!”

Axiom. ­When a husband and a wife have got each other, the devil only knows which has got the other.

The young couple are captivating, whereupon the stout Madame Deschars gives utterance to a remark somewhat equivocal for her, usually so stern, prudish and devout.

“Country air has one excellent property:  it makes husbands very amiable.”

M. Deschars points out an opportunity for Adolphe to seize.  A house is to be sold at Ville d’Avray, for a song, of course.  Now, the country house is a weakness peculiar to the inhabitant of Paris.  This weakness, or disease, has its course and its cure.  Adolphe is a husband, but not a doctor.  He buys the house and takes possession with Caroline, who has become once more his Caroline, his Carola, his fawn, his treasure, his girly girl.

The following alarming symptoms now succeed each other with frightful rapidity:  a cup of milk, baptized, costs five sous; when it is anhydrous, as the chemists say, ten sous.  Meat costs more at Sèvres than at Paris, if you carefully examine the qualities.  Fruit cannot be had at any price.  A fine pear costs more in the country than in the (anhydrous!) garden that blooms in Chevet’s window.

Before being able to raise fruit for oneself, from a Swiss meadow measuring two square yards, surrounded by a few green trees which look as if they were borrowed from the scenic illusions of a theatre, the most rural authorities, being consulted on the point, declare that you must spend a great deal of money, and ­wait five years!  Vegetables dash out of the husbandman’s garden to reappear at the city market.  Madame Deschars, who possesses a gate-keeper that is at the same time a gardener, confesses that the vegetables raised on her land, beneath her glass frames, by dint of compost and top-soil, cost her twice as much as those she used to buy at Paris, of a woman who had rent and taxes to pay, and whose husband was an elector.  Despite the efforts and pledges of the gate-keeper-gardener, early peas and things at Paris are a month in advance of those in the country.

From eight in the evening to eleven our couple don’t know what to do, on account of the insipidity of the neighbors, their small ideas, and the questions of self-love which arise out of the merest trifles.

Monsieur Deschars remarks, with that profound knowledge of figures which distinguishes the ex-notary, that the cost of going to Paris and back, added to the interest of the cost of his villa, to the taxes, wages of the gate-keeper and his wife, are equal to a rent of three thousand francs a year.  He does not see how he, an ex-notary, allowed himself to be so caught!  For he has often drawn up leases of chateaux with parks and out-houses, for three thousand a year.

It is agreed by everybody in the parlor of Madame Deschars, that a country house, so far from being a pleasure, is an unmitigated nuisance.

“I don’t see how they sell a cabbage for one sou at market, which has to be watered every day from its birth to the time you eat it,” says Caroline.

“The way to get along in the country,” replies a little retired grocer, “is to stay there, to live there, to become country-folks, and then everything changes.”

On going home, Caroline says to her poor Adolphe, “What an idea that was of yours, to buy a country house!  The best way to do about the country is to go there on visits to other people.”

Adolphe remembers an English proverb, which says, “Don’t have a newspaper or a country seat of your own:  there are plenty of idiots who will have them for you.”

“Bah!” returns Adolph, who was enlightened once for all upon women’s logic by the Matrimonial Gadfly, “you are right:  but then you know the baby is in splendid health, here.”

Though Adolphe has become prudent, this reply awakens Caroline’s susceptibilities.  A mother is very willing to think exclusively of her child, but she does not want him to be preferred to herself.  She is silent; the next day, she is tired to death of the country.  Adolphe being absent on business, she waits for him from five o’clock to seven, and goes alone with little Charles to the coach office.  She talks for three-quarters of an hour of her anxieties.  She was afraid to go from the house to the office.  Is it proper for a young woman to be left alone, so?  She cannot support such an existence.

The country house now creates a very peculiar phase; one which deserves a chapter to itself.