es without caring in the slightest degree whether a
woman's ear is within reach of their voices. Yesterday, on the beach I
was forced to go away from the place where I sat in order not to be any
longer the involuntary confidante of an obscene anecdote, told in such
immodest language that I felt just as much humiliated as indignant at
having heard it. Would not the most elementary good-breeding have taught
them to speak in a lower tone about such matters when we are near at
hand. Etretat is, moreover, the country of gossip and scandal. From five
to seven o'clock you can see people wandering about in quest of nasty
stories about others which they retail from group to group. As you
remarked to me, my dear aunt, tittle-tattle is the mark of petty
individuals and petty minds. It is also the consolation of women who are
no longer loved or sought after. It is enough for me to observe the
women who are fondest of gossiping to be persuaded that you are quite
right.

The other day I was present at a musical evening at the Casino, given by
a remarkable artist, Madame Masson, who sings in a truly delightful
manner. I took the opportunity of applauding the admirable Coquelin, as
well as two charming boarders of the Vaudeville, M---- and Meillet. I
was able, on the occasion, to see all the bathers collected together
this year on the beach. There were not many persons of distinction among
them.

Next day I went to lunch at Yport. I noticed a tall man with a beard who
was coming out of a large house like a castle. It was the painter, Jean
Paul Laurens. He is not satisfied apparently with imprisoning the
subjects of his pictures he insists on imprisoning himself.

Then, I found myself seated on the shingle close to a man still young,
of gentle and refined appearance, who was reading some verses. But he
read them with such concentration, with such passion, I may say, that he
did not even raise his eyes towards me. I was somewhat astonished, and I
asked the conductor of the baths without appearing to be much concerned,
the name of this gentleman. I laughed inwardly a little at this reader
of rhymes; he seemed behind the age, for a man. This person, I thought,
must be a simpleton. Well, aunt, I am now infatuated about this
stranger. Just fancy, his name is Sully Prudhomme! I turned round to
look at him at my ease, just where I sat. His face possesses the two
qualities of calmness and elegance. As somebody came to look for him, I
was abl