“And could madame also lend us some small drinking-glasses, it may be, and a little corkscrew?”

The old lady is visibly hardening.  She is clearly averse to mysteries.  We may be contrabandists, or political exiles, or any variety of refugee foreigners.  She hesitates about the drinking-glasses; is not sure she has a corkscrew.  But another deposit is soothingly arranged for and paid, and the articles are found.

“And now could we ask to borrow a basket?—­also on deposit.”

But here the madame’s obligingness quite deserts her.  The refusal is flat.  She has no basket which can possibly be spared.

It is, we see, plainly time that we should explain our mysterious selections.  Confidingly we entrust her with the secret, and lay bare our unconventional plan.  At the first she listens unmoved, but the idea of “pique-nique” is soon borne in upon her, and lets in a ray of light.  The frost thaws a trifle.  “We are with friends,” we say; “they are on the bluffs; they have desired to make a luncheon for once without the fork,—­to eat their little breads in the open air, upon the rocks.”  Our listener nods, half doubtfully.  Then we play our highest trump:  “We are but on a visit to Biarritz; we have come from far away; we are Americans.”

Instantly the barriers are down; madame is our firmest ally.  “Run, Elise, seek the large pannier for our friends!  Is it that you are of the fair America?—­la belle Amerique. Ah, but monsieur, why have you not said thus before?  You should most charmingly have been supplied; are they not indeed always the friends of our country,—­the Americans!  You shall bring here the breads you buy at the bakery; we will add knives and plates and some fruit, and Elise shall herself carry for you the full basket to the place of the pique-nique.”

Verily the Stars and Stripes are words to conjure with!  The picnic is a complete success.  The De Medici fete is more than surpassed; even an attendant nymph, in the person of the rustic Elise, is not wanting; the historical parallel is perfect.

In fact, the parallel finally carries itself too far.  So small an affair even as this, it appears, cannot escape the hostility of “envious Fortune,”—­the same who untimely cut off its lamented rival.  A large, black cloud, coming up over us like a vengeful harpy, forebodes the invariable downpour, and grimly compels us to shorten the feast.

On Sunday, we attend the English service; Britain is sufficiently well represented at Biarritz to support one during both summer and winter.  The day is restful and calm, and we stroll out afterward along the beach and over to the deserted villa of the Empress, returning by the path on the bluff.  The sound of trowels and hammers is in part stilled about the town, and the afternoon takes on a comfortingly peaceful tone in consequence.  The English-speaking contingent keeps the day as quietly as may be; the Continental majority of course does not.  In a few weeks, posters will adorn the Saturday bulletins, announcing the next day’s bull-fight in San Sebastian, over the border; and if Sunday is quiet at Biarritz in the season, it is simply because all the world spends the day at San Sebastian.