Part 9 (1/2)

On this occasion my cabman, for no reason whatever, suddenly began to beat his horse in the hatefulest way, leaning down with his whip and striking the horse underneath, as we were going downhill on the Rue de Freycinet. I screamed at him, but he pretended not to hear. The cab rocked from side to side, the horse was galloping, and this brute beating him like a madman. It made me wild. I was being bounced around like corn in a popper and in imminent danger of being thrown to the pavement.

People saw my danger, but n.o.body did anything--just looked, that was all. I saw that I must save myself if there was any saving going to be done. So with one last trial of my lungs I shrieked at the cabman, but the cobblestones were his excuse, and he kept on. So I just stood up and knocked his hat off with my parasol!--his big, white, glazed hat.

It was glorious! He turned around in a fury and pulled up his horse, with a torrent of French abuse and impudence which scared me nearly to death. I thought he might strike me.

So I pulled my twitching lips into a distortion which pa.s.sed muster with a Paris cabman for a smile, and begged his pardon so profusely that he relented and didn't kill me.

I often blush for the cheap Americans with loud voices and provincial speech, and general commonness, whom one meets over here; but with all their faults they cannot approach the vulgarities at table which I have seen in Paris. In all America we have no such vulgar inst.i.tution as their _rince-bouche_--an affair resembling a two-part finger-bowl, with the water in a cup in the middle. At fas.h.i.+onable tables, men and women in gorgeous clothes, who speak four or five languages, actually rinse their mouths and gargle at the table, and then slop the water thus used back into these bowls. The first time I saw this I do a.s.sure you I would not have been more astonished if the next course had been stomach pumps.

And as for the toothpick habit! Let no one ever tell me that that atrocity is American! Here it goes with every course, and without the pretended decency of holding one's _serviette_ before one's mouth, which, in my opinion, is a mere affectation, and aggravates the offence.

But the most shameless thing in all Europe is the marriage question.

To talk with intelligent, clever, thinking men and women, who know the secret history of all the famous international marriages, as well as the high contracting parties, who will relate the price paid for the husband, and who the intermediary was, and how much commission he or she received, is to make you turn faint and sick at the mere thought, especially if you happen to come from a country where they once fought to abolish the buying and selling of human beings. But our black slaves were above buying and selling themselves or their children. It remains for civilized Europe of our time to do this, and the highest and proudest of her people at that.

It is not so shocking to read about it in glittering generalities. I knew of it in a vague way, just as I knew the history of the ma.s.sacre of Saint Bartholomew. I thought it was too bad that so many people were killed, and I also thought it a pity that Frenchmen never married without a _dot_. But when it comes to meeting the people who had thus bargained, and the moment their gorgeous lace and satin backs were turned to hear some one say, ”You are always so interested in that sort of thing, have you heard what a scandal was caused by the marriage of those two?”--then it ceases to be history; then it becomes almost a family affair.

”How could a marriage between two unattached young people cause a scandal?” I asked, with my stupid, primitive American ideas.

”Oh, the bride's mother refused to pay the commission to the intermediary,” was the airy reply. ”It came near getting into the papers.”

At the Jubilee garden party at Lady Monson's I saw the most beautiful French girl I have seen in Paris. She was superb. In America she would have been a radiant, a triumphant beauty, and probably would have acquired the insolent manners of some of our spoiled beauties. Instead of that, however, she was modest, even timid-looking, except for her queenly carriage. Her gown was a dream, and a dream of a dress at a Paris garden party means something.

”What a tearing beauty!” I said to my companion. ”Who is she?”

”Yes, poor girl!” he said. ”She is the daughter of the Comtesse N----.

One of the prettiest girls in Paris. Not a sou, however; consequently she will never marry. She will probably go into a convent.”

”But why? Why won't she marry? Why aren't all the men crazy about her?

Why don't you marry her?”

”Marry a girl without a _dot_? Thank you, mademoiselle. I am an expense to myself. My wife must not be an additional enc.u.mbrance.”

”But surely,” I said, ”somebody will want to marry her, if no n.o.bleman will.”

”Ah, yes, but she is of n.o.ble blood, and she must not marry beneath her. No one in her own cla.s.s will marry her, so”--a shrug--”the convent! See, her chances are quite gone. She has been out five years now.”

I could have cried. Every word of it was quite true. I thought of the dozens of susceptible and rich American men I knew who would have gone through fire and water for her, and who, although they have no t.i.tle to give her, would have made her adoring and adorable husbands, and I seriously thought of offering a few of them to her for consideration!

But alas, there are so many ifs and ands, and--well, I didn't.

I only sighed and said, ”Well, I suppose such things are common in France, but I do a.s.sure you such things are impossible in America.”

”Such things as what, mademoiselle?”

”This cold-blooded bartering,” I said. ”American men are above it.”

”Are American girls above selling themselves, mademoiselle? Do you see that poor, pitifully plain little creature there, in that dress which cost a fortune? Do you see how ill she carries it? Do you see her unformed, uncertain manner? Her husband is the one I just had the honor of presenting to you, who is now talking to the beauty you so much admire.”

”He shows good taste in spite of his marriage,” I said.

”Certainly. But his wife is your countrywoman. That is the last famous international marriage, and the most vulgar of the whole lot. Listen, mademoiselle, and I will tell you the exact truth of the whole affair.