Short Stories, vol 8 | Page 7

I will call attention to
one example.
Another poet, Francois Coppee, has written a line which we all
remember, a line which we find delightful, which moves our very
hearts.
After describing the expectancy of a lover, waiting in a room one
winter's evening, his anxiety, his nervous impatience, the terrible fear
of not seeing her, he describes the arrival of the beloved woman, who at
last enters hurriedly, out of breath, bringing with her part of the winter
breeze, and he exclaims:
Oh! the taste of the kisses first snatched through the veil.
Is that not a line of exquisite sentiment, a delicate and charming
observation, a perfect truth? All those who have hastened to a
clandestine meeting, whom passion has thrown into the arms of a man,
well do they know these first delicious kisses through the veil; and they
tremble at the memory of them. And yet their sole charm lies in the

circumstances, from being late, from the anxious expectancy, but from
the purely--or, rather, impurely, if you prefer--sensual point of view,
they are detestable.
Think! Outside it is cold. The young woman has walked quickly; the
veil is moist from her cold breath. Little drops of water shine in the lace.
The lover seizes her and presses his burning lips to her liquid breath.
The moist veil, which discolors and carries the dreadful odor of
chemical dye, penetrates into the young man's mouth, moistens his
mustache. He does not taste the lips of his beloved, he tastes the dye of
this lace moistened with cold breath. And yet, like the poet, we would
all exclaim:
Oh! the taste of the kisses first snatched through the veil.
Therefore, the value of this caress being entirely a matter of convention,
we must be careful not to abuse it.
Well, my dear, I have several times noticed that you are very clumsy.
However, you were not alone in that fault; the majority of women lose
their authority by abusing the kiss with untimely kisses. When they feel
that their husband or their lover is a little tired, at those times when the
heart as well as the body needs rest, instead of understanding what is
going on within him, they persist in giving inopportune caresses, tire
him by the obstinacy of begging lips and give caresses lavished with
neither rhyme nor reason.
Trust in the advice of my experience. First, never kiss your husband in
public, in the train, at the restaurant. It is bad taste; do not give in to
your desires. He would feel ridiculous and would never forgive you.
Beware of useless kisses lavished in intimacy. I am sure that you abuse
them. For instance, I remember one day that you did something quite
shocking. Probably you do not remember it.
All three of us were together in the drawing-room, and, as you did not
stand on ceremony before me, your husband was holding you on his
knees and kissing you at great length on the neck, the lips and throat.
Suddenly you exclaimed: "Oh! the fire!" You had been paying no
attention to it, and it was almost out. A few lingering embers were
glowing on the hearth. Then he rose, ran to the woodbox, from which
he dragged two enormous logs with great difficulty, when you came to
him with begging lips, murmuring:
"Kiss me!" He turned his head with difficulty and tried to hold up the

logs at the same time. Then you gently and slowly placed your mouth
on that of the poor fellow, who remained with his neck out of joint, his
sides twisted, his arms almost dropping off, trembling with fatigue and
tired from his desperate effort. And you kept drawing out this torturing
kiss, without seeing or understanding. Then when you freed him, you
began to grumble: "How badly you kiss!" No wonder!
Oh, take care of that! We all have this foolish habit, this unconscious
need of choosing the most inconvenient moments. When he is carrying
a glass of water, when he is putting on his shoes, when he is tying his
scarf--in short, when he finds himself in any uncomfortable position--
then is the time which we choose for a caress which makes him stop for
a whole minute in the middle of a gesture with the sole desire of getting
rid of us!
Do not think that this criticism is insignificant. Love, my dear, is a
delicate thing. The least little thing offends it; know that everything
depends on the tact of our caresses. An ill-placed kiss may do any
amount of harm.
Try following my advice.
Your old aunt, COLLETTE.
This story appeared in the Gaulois in November, 1882, under the
pseudonym of "Maufrigneuse."

THE LEGION OF HONOR
HOW HE GOT THE LEGION OF HONOR