with style.  She dresses very well, and has a great deal of talk; but, though she is a very good imitation of a lady, I never see her behind the dinner-table, in the evening, smiling and bowing, as the people come in, and looking all the while at the dishes and the servants, without thinking of a dame de comptoir blooming in a corner of a shop or a restaurant.  I am sure that, in spite of her fine name, she was once a dame de comptoir.  I am also sure that, in spite of her smiles and the pretty things she says to every one, she hates us all, and would like to murder us.  She is a hard, clever Frenchwoman, who would like to amuse herself and enjoy her Paris, and she must be bored to death at passing all her time in the midst of stupid English people who mumble broken French at her.  Some day she will poison the soup or the vin rouge; but I hope that will not be until after mother and I shall have left her.  She has two daughters, who, except that one is decidedly pretty, are meagre imitations of herself.

The “family,” for the rest, consists altogether of our beloved compatriots, and of still more beloved Englanders.  There is an Englishman here, with his sister, and they seem to be rather nice people.  He is remarkably handsome, but excessively affected and patronising, especially to us Americans; and I hope to have a chance of biting his head off before long.  The sister is very pretty, and, apparently, very nice; but, in costume, she is Britannia incarnate.  There is a very pleasant little Frenchman—­when they are nice they are charming—­and a German doctor, a big blonde man, who looks like a great white bull; and two Americans, besides mother and me.  One of them is a young man from Boston,—­an aesthetic young man, who talks about its being “a real Corot day,” etc., and a young woman—­a girl, a female, I don’t know what to call her—­from Vermont, or Minnesota, or some such place.  This young woman is the most extraordinary specimen of artless Yankeeism that I ever encountered; she is really too horrible.  I have been three times to Clementine about your underskirt, etc.

CHAPTER IV

FROM LOUIS LEVERETT, IN PARIS, TO HARVARD TREMONT, IN BOSTON.

September 25th.

My dear Harvard—­I have carried out my plan, of which I gave you a hint in my last, and I only regret that I should not have done it before.  It is human nature, after all, that is the most interesting thing in the world, and it only reveals itself to the truly earnest seeker.  There is a want of earnestness in that life of hotels and railroad trains, which so many of our countrymen are content to lead in this strange Old World, and I was distressed to find how far I, myself; had been led along the dusty, beaten track.  I had, however, constantly wanted to turn aside into more unfrequented ways; to plunge beneath the surface and see what I should discover.  But the opportunity had always been missing; somehow, I never meet those opportunities that we hear about and read about—­the things that happen to people in novels and biographies.  And yet I am always on the watch to take advantage of any opening that may present itself; I am always looking out for experiences, for sensations—­I might almost say for adventures.