Dearest Mamma,—­The longer I stay, here the more glad I am that I am not French!  Victorine is going to be shown to her future fiance to-day, but I must first tell you how it came about.  We went to Chateau de Tournelle yesterday to pay our visit, Godmamma, Victorine, and I in the victoria, and Jean and Heloise in the phaeton.  They were in the garden playing tennis with a party of friends from Versailles, and among them, of course, the Vicomte and “Antoine.”  They were all so glad to see me, and the Baronne called me her “chere petite,” and kissed me on both cheeks, as if we had been parted for months.  The Vicomte—­when he had done putting his heels together and bowing to Victorine and me, and kissing Heloise’s and Godmamma’s hands—­managed to get in, in a lower voice, that his ride from Versailles now seemed to him to have been very short.  Upon which Victorine at once said, “Comment?” with the expression of a terrier whose ears are suddenly cocked up on the alert.  He bowed more deeply than ever, and said that he was saying it was a long ride from Versailles!  So you see that Frenchmen are not truthful, Mamma!  Well—­then we were sent to look at the gardens, accompanied by Jean and the Cure.

[Sidenote:  An Untruthful Frenchman]

The Comtesse “adores” le tennis, and plays very well, it quite animates her.  The Baronne plays too, but she doesn’t hit the ball much, and screams most of the time; she was in the middle of a game when we arrived, and only stopped to pay all kinds of civilities to our party.  Her pretty feet show when she runs about, but she wears a large black tulle hat with fluffy strings, and it does not seem very suitable for tennis.  I had to walk with the old Cure when the path was not wide enough to trot all together.  The gardens really are lovely, with all kinds of strange shrubs and trees, and fontaines and bosquets, and nooks, but I don’t see the least use in them if one has always to walk three in a row, if not more, do you, Mamma?  The Cure was a charming old fellow, and explained all the plants to me.  We had no sooner got back to the tennis ground than one felt something momentous was taking place between Godmamma and the Baronne.  She had finished her tennis, and they were sitting away from the others, nodding their heads together.  Victorine at once put on a conscious air, and minced more than usual.  “Antoine” and Heloise seemed speaking seriously, while she examined his new racket.  The Vicomte had begun a game, so could not talk to us, but some more officers were introduced, and, after the usual bowing, we began to talk.

“Vous aimez le tennis, mademoiselle?”

“Oui, monsieur,” from Victorine.  “Moi, je le deteste,” from me.

“Pas possible!” from every one.

“Je vous assure on ne joue que le croquet chez nous.”

“Le croquet,” from Victorine, “un jeu de Couvent!”

“Le croquet!  Et les anglais qui n’aiment que l’exercice!” from the officers, &c., &c.