[Sidenote:  On a Motor Car]

We left here about six, and then picked up the party at Tournelle.  They all went—­the old Baron, and every one, except the Marquis’s mother.  We dropped the brougham there, and went on with them in a huge motor car (that is another fad of the Baron’s).  It is lovely motor-carring; you get quite used to the noise and smell, and you fly along so, it takes your breath away; even with your hat tied on with a big veil, you have rather the feeling you have got to screw up your eyebrows to keep it from blowing away.  We seemed to be no time doing the ten miles.  The Baronne and Heloise hate it, and never go in it except under protest.  The Foire is just one very long street, with booths and merry-go-rounds, and Montagnes Russes, and all sorts of amusing things down each side.  There are rows of poplar trees behind them, and evidently on ordinary occasions it is just the usual French road, but with all the lights and people it was gay.

We stopped at the village inn, the “Toison d’Or” which is famous for its restaurant and its landlady.  In the season the Duc de Cressy’s coach comes here from Paris every Thursday.  Hippolyte was there already; he had been sent on to secure a table for us.  We had no sooner sat down under the awning than the Vicomte and “Antoine” and two other officers turned up.  They had ridden from Versailles, which is near.  Such extraordinary people sat at some of the tables!  Families of almost peasants at one, and then at the next perhaps two or three lovely ladies, with very smart dresses and big hats, and lots of pearls, and some young men in evening dress.  And then some respectable bourgeois, and so on.  I could hardly pay attention to what the Marquis, who sat next me, was saying, the sight was so new and entertaining.

The tables had cloths without any starch in them, and the longest bread rolls I have ever seen.  One of the beautiful ladies with the pearls used hers to beat the man next to her before they had finished dinner.  We did not have fresh forks and knives for everything, but the famous dish of the place made up for it.  It is composed of poussins—­that is, very baby chickens—­raw oysters, and cream and truffles.  You get a hot bit of chicken into your mouth and think it is all right, and then your tongue comes against an iced oyster, and the mixture is so exciting you are stimulated all the time; and you drink a very fine old Burgundy with it, which is also a feature of the place.  I am sure it ought to poison us, as oysters aren’t in for another month, but it is awfully good.

[Sidenote:  Chevaux au Galop]

One of the strange officers is so amusing; he looks exactly like the young man the Marquise de Vermandoise was walking in the Bois with, but it could not be he, as she seemed so surprised to see him at the Foire, and said they had not met for ages.  The Comte sat on my other side; he said I would be greatly amused at the booths presently, and was I afraid of Montagnes Russes?  That is only an ordinary switchback, Mamma, so of course I am not afraid.  There were Tziganes playing while we dined, and it was all more amusing than anything I have done here yet.  When we had drunk our coffee we started down the Foire.  There were hundreds of people of every class, but not one drunk or rude or horrid.