door. And, behind me, two gentlemen were also
waiting without showing any readiness, as I did, to lose their temper.
The reason was that they had long grown accustomed to our unconscionable
insolence.

The other day, before leaving Paris, I went to dine with no less a
person than your husband, in the Champs Elysees, in order to enjoy the
fresh air. Every table was occupied. The waiter asked us to wait and
there would soon be a vacant table.

At that moment I noticed an elderly lady of noble figure, who, having
paid for her dinner, seemed on the point of going away. She saw me,
scanned me from head to foot, and did not budge. For more than a quarter
of an hour she sat there, immovable, putting on her gloves, and calmly
staring at those who were waiting like myself. Now, two young men who
were just finishing their dinner, having seen me in their turn, hastily
summoned the waiter, paid what they owed, and at once offered me their
seats, even insisting on standing while waiting for their change. And,
bear in mind, my fair niece, that I am no longer pretty, like you, but
old and white-haired.

It is we, you see, who should be taught politeness, and the task would
be such a difficult one that Hercules himself would not be equal to
it. You speak to me about Etretat and about the people who indulged in
"tittle-tattle" along the beach of that delightful watering-place. It is
a spot now lost to me, a thing of the past, but I found much amusement
therein days gone by.

There were only a few of us, people in good society, really good
society, and a few artists, and we all fraternized. We paid little
attention to gossip in those days.

As we had no monotonous Casino, where people only gather for show,
where they whisper, where they dance stupidly, where they succeed in
thoroughly boring one another, we sought some other way of passing our
evenings pleasantly. Now, just guess what came into the head of one of
our husbands? Nothing less than to go and dance each night in one of the
farm-houses in the neighborhood.

We started out in a group with a street-organ, generally played by Le
Poittevin, the painter, with a cotton nightcap on his head. Two men
carried lanterns. We followed in procession, laughing and chattering
like a pack of fools.

We woke up the farmer and his servant-maids and farm hands. We got them
to make onion soup (horror!), and we danced under the apple trees, to
the sound of the barrel-organ. The cocks waki