It is not so shocking to read about it in glittering generalities.  I knew of it in a vague way, just as I knew the history of the massacre of Saint Bartholomew.  I thought it was too bad that so many people were killed, and I also thought it a pity that Frenchmen never married without a dot.  But when it comes to meeting the people who had thus bargained, and the moment their gorgeous lace and satin backs were turned to hear some one say, “You are always so interested in that sort of thing, have you heard what a scandal was caused by the marriage of those two?”—­then it ceases to be history; then it becomes almost a family affair.

“How could a marriage between two unattached young people cause a scandal?” I asked, with my stupid, primitive American ideas.

“Oh, the bride’s mother refused to pay the commission to the intermediary,” was the airy reply.  “It came near getting into the papers.”

At the Jubilee garden party at Lady Monson’s I saw the most beautiful French girl I have seen in Paris.  She was superb.  In America she would have been a radiant, a triumphant beauty, and probably would have acquired the insolent manners of some of our spoiled beauties.  Instead of that, however, she was modest, even timid-looking, except for her queenly carriage.  Her gown was a dream, and a dream of a dress at a Paris garden party means something.

“What a tearing beauty!” I said to my companion.  “Who is she?”

“Yes, poor girl!” he said.  “She is the daughter of the Comtesse N——.  One of the prettiest girls in Paris.  Not a sou, however; consequently she will never marry.  She will probably go into a convent.”

“But why?  Why won’t she marry?  Why aren’t all the men crazy about her?  Why don’t you marry her?”

“Marry a girl without a dot?  Thank you, mademoiselle.  I am an expense to myself.  My wife must not be an additional encumbrance.”

“But surely,” I said, “somebody will want to marry her, if no nobleman will.”

“Ah, yes, but she is of noble blood, and she must not marry beneath her.  No one in her own class will marry her, so”—­a shrug—­“the convent!  See, her chances are quite gone.  She has been out five years now.”

I could have cried.  Every word of it was quite true.  I thought of the dozens of susceptible and rich American men I knew who would have gone through fire and water for her, and who, although they have no title to give her, would have made her adoring and adorable husbands, and I seriously thought of offering a few of them to her for consideration!  But alas, there are so many ifs and ands, and—­well, I didn’t.

I only sighed and said, “Well, I suppose such things are common in France, but I do assure you such things are impossible in America.”

“Such things as what, mademoiselle?”

“This cold-blooded bartering,” I said.  “American men are above it.”

“Are American girls above selling themselves, mademoiselle?  Do you see that poor, pitifully plain little creature there, in that dress which cost a fortune?  Do you see how ill she carries it?  Do you see her unformed, uncertain manner?  Her husband is the one I just had the honor of presenting to you, who is now talking to the beauty you so much admire.”