more, and
went away in a fury. Nothing could be more perfect or more amusing than
the contrast. The manner of the whole affair was such as, I apprehend,
one would not have seen among our English-speaking people; both the
jauntiness of the first phase and the petulance of the second. To hold
the balance straight, however, I may remark that if the men were all
fearful "cads," they were, with their cigarettes and their
inconsistency, less heavy, less brutal, than our dear English-speaking
cad; just as the bright little cafe where a robust materfamilias, doling
out sugar and darning a stocking, sat in her place under the mirror
behind the _comptoir_, was a much more civilised spot than a British
public-house or a "commercial room," with pipes and whisky, or even than
an American saloon.

[Illustration]

Chapter xiii

[Le Mans]

It is very certain that when I left Tours for Le Mans it was a journey
and not an excursion; for I had no intention of coming back. The
question indeed was to get away, no easy matter in France in the early
days of October, when the whole _jeunesse_ of the country is returning
to school. It is accompanied, apparently, with parents and grandparents,
and it fills the trains with little pale-faced _lyceens_, who gaze out
of the windows with a longing, lingering air not unnatural on the part
of small members of a race in which life is intense, who are about to be
restored to those big educative barracks that do such violence to our
American appreciation of the opportunities of boyhood. The train stopped
every five minutes; but fortunately the country was charming--hilly and
bosky, eminently good-humoured, and dotted here and there with a smart
little chateau. The old capital of the province of the Maine, which has
given its name to a great American State, is a fairly interesting town,
but I confess that I found in it less than I expected to admire. My
expectations had doubtless been my own fault; there is no particular
reason why Le Mans should fascinate. It stands upon a hill, indeed--a
much better hill than the gentle swell of Bourges. This hill, however,
is not steep in all directions; from the railway, as I arrived, it was
not even perceptible. Since I am making comparisons, I may remark that,
on the other hand, the Boule d'Or at Le Mans is an appreciably better
inn than the Boule d'Or at Bourges. It looks out upon a small
market-place which has a certain amount of character and seems to