“What an infinity of dreams is caused by two such eyes!  How well they answer the dim, eternal question of our heart!

“It must not be forgotten either that we Frenchmen adore foreign women.  As soon as we meet a Russian, an Italian, a Swede, a Spaniard, or an Englishwoman with a pretty face, we immediately fall in love with her.  We enthuse over everything which comes from outside—­clothes, hats, gloves, guns and—­women.  But what a blunder!

“I believe that that which pleases us in foreign women is their accent.  As soon as a woman speaks our language badly we think she is charming, if she uses the wrong word she is exquisite and if she jabbers in an entirely unintelligible jargon, she becomes irresistible.

“My little English girl, Kate, spoke a language to be marvelled at.  At the beginning I could understand nothing, she invented so many new words; then I fell absolutely in love with this queer, amusing dialect.  All maimed, strange, ridiculous terms became delightful in her mouth.  Every evening, on the terrace of the Casino, we had long conversations which resembled spoken enigmas.

“I married her!  I loved her wildly, as one can only love in a dream.  For true lovers only love a dream which has taken the form of a woman.

“Well, my dear fellow, the most foolish thing I ever did was to give my wife a French teacher.  As long as she slaughtered the dictionary and tortured the grammar I adored her.  Our conversations were simple.  They revealed to me her surprising gracefulness and matchless elegance; they showed her to me as a wonderful speaking jewel, a living doll made to be kissed, knowing, after a fashion, how to express what she loved.  She reminded me of the pretty little toys which say ‘papa’ and ‘mamma’ when you pull a string.

“Now she talks—­badly—­very badly.  She makes as many mistakes as ever—­but I can understand her.

“I have opened my doll to look inside—­and I have seen.  And now I have to talk to her!

“Ah! you don’t know, as I do, the opinions, the ideas, the theories of a well-educated young English girl, whom I can blame in nothing, and who repeats to me from morning till night sentences from a French reader prepared in England for the use of young ladies’ schools.

“You have seen those cotillon favors, those pretty gilt papers, which enclose candies with an abominable taste.  I have one of them.  I tore it open.  I wished to eat what was inside and it disgusted me so that I feel nauseated at seeing her compatriots.

“I have married a parrot to whom some old English governess might have taught French.  Do you understand?”

The harbor of Trouville was now showing its wooden piers covered with people.

I said: 

“Where is your wife?”

He answered: 

“I took her back to Etretat.”

“And you, where are you going?”

“I?  Oh, I am going to rest up here at Trouville.”