, 1888-09-15
A F~RENCHMAN'S TALE.

or SO at Frascatis hotel, Havre, during
the height of the season, must remember
the interesting rows of men which daily,
at the hour when the low tide signal is
flying. form along the wooden walk from
the little village Of green lighthouses to
the waters edge, to c~riticise or admire the
fair bathers as they trip by in their flow
ing peignoirs. with their lady's maids in
tow Here, at the top of the line, we have
the usual Englishman, with ~extravagant
checked kn~ickerbockers, nudging the
stout little Irishman at his side as each of
the peignoirs sails past, and saying to him
in a most audible whisper; "a mighty fine
gal-awi By Georgel a doosed pretty
anklel" to which our Irishman replies,
with the broadcast of accents: "Yis, by st.
Patrick, but she wouldn't be the worst
down there, where the ripples break
on the stones, we recognize that
tall Monsieur 10 Comte de s., with
his craning neck and his eyeglass. The
roguel He always takes up his stand
down there where he can study the graces
of the outlines revealed by the peignoirs
as they drop from naughty shoulders and
are caught by ~obsequious maids. No
heiress nor dowager but he knows the ex-
act cut of her blue flannel ''corsage," and
how much of the natural she has about
uGIl DtIhttu LutSb bWO eAITeIueS Is
every imaginable grade-from your high
treasury cockalorum down to your sleek
combed groom and your white aproned
garcon. We have seen them q hundred
times, and we know them by heart. The
never ending procession of ladies-we are,
to our shame be 1t said, tired of that, too.
The fat AVE lost their charms in our
satiated eyes; the thin no longer coil
themselves about our hearts. The stones,
too. IN which we are sitting (for sand is
scarce on this rough beach) remind US
that they were never intended to be sat
on, and we are just preparing to leave
when the tall gentleman whom we met at
the table d'hote a week ago strolls up and
sinks down beside us.
"Ah, but my good friend"-for he
speaks English as fuently as he does sew
eral other languages-'is it not pleasant
to sit down when one is tired? Here 1
have been stalking about like a lonely
stork ever since Nina went into the
waterl"
Do not be surprised, reader, at the IA
miliar tone which this big Frenchman
talks. There is nothing like a week of
table d'hote neighborhood at Frascati's TO
make friends, especially when one of the
parties is a curious American and the
other a talkative and Travelled Frenchman.
Monsieur LIE Quai had easily swept away
my reserve by showing lone himself, and
before our third dinner was lone we had
gotten over an amount of ground on the
road to intimacy which, with reasonable
people and at reasonable times, is not to
be raced over In less than two weeks.
"Ah, madame is in the bathl" I re-
marked, scanning the crowd of heads bob
bing about on the waves.
L voilal' he said, pointing her out to
me. She was standing up; the waves
reached only to her small waist, leaving
admirable head | I'M rather a skeptic as
regards feminine beauty; but here was
truly a face about which there could be
nc doubt. Rich black hair and soft eyes,
full red lips, transpar- But l never
was good at describing faces, especially
women's. Suffice it to say, she was an
ideal brunette. l could not help telling
my tall friend SO. But" continued /,
cher cast of feature is certainly not
French; she seems more to be Spanish"
mo" said her husband, "she is not
Spanish"
"Italian?" I ventured, with more curl
osity than politeness.
"Non pas Italienne."
As he did not advance any further in
formation, and thinking that he did not
wish to tell me, | desisted, and was pre-
pairing to change the subject, when, with
out any warning, he began the following
story:
at was on a summer evening, in the
year 1877, that was sitting on the YER
anda of a beautiful house near the city of
Caracas. Directly before me stretched a
perspective of exquisitely kept lawns and
shaded walks, while further off, here and
there among the trees, shone n silvery
little lake; far in the distance the white
houses of the city caught the CLEAN of
the evening sun as it sunk behind the
mountains in the west. But 1t was not
at this bit of natures painting that l was
gazing; | needed not to search the dis
lance for beauties to charm my eye, when
at my side was seated what seemed to me
then to be the most beautiful woman in
the world. Whether she is what my
fancy painted her or not l leave you to
decide. for she is my wife"
mumbled something to the effect that
she was an angel of beauty, which the
story teller did not heed.
mo words" continued he, ''can de-
scribe the admiration which | had for the
rich warmth of her dark hair and the
gentle depths of her black eyes, the melt
ing red of her lips, or the graceful curves
of her figure. My dear friend, l had Just
proposed to her. 1t took the courage of a
Napoleon to do 1t, but | did, and then
waited breathless for her answer. So in.
tense were my feelings that | have not
forgotten q single word of our converse
ton.
mo, my dear Mr.. LIE Quail she said,
with that friendliness of tone so tantaliz-
ing to a lover who sees his doom ahead,
L do not doubt that what you say is true
that you love me with all your heart
n soul; and | cannot express how fiat
tered l am by it. l feel for you, sir, tho
respect due to n man whom my father
has brought to his house as a friend, and
the friendship which no woman can re-
fuse to a man who has often amused and
sometimes instructed her.
Miss Nina de Latore, / was well aware,
wal accustomed to the homage of all her
fathers numerous guests. Hence 1 had