Some years ago I was on the committee for a great sale we had in our arrondissement in Paris for the benefit of “L’Assistance par le Travail,” an excellent work which we are all much interested in.  I was in charge of the buffet, and thought it better to apply at once to one of the great caterers, Potel and Chabot, and see what they could do for us.  We made an appointment, and Mme. de B. and I drove down to the place.  The manager was out, but they told us that Madame was waiting for us in the back shop.  We found rather a pretty woman, very well dressed in velvet, with diamond earrings, and I was put out at first—­thought that didn’t look like business.  However, we talked a few minutes; she said her husband was obliged to go to the country, but would certainly come and see me the next day.  Then she stepped up to her desk, where there was a big book open, said she understood we wished to give an order for a buffet for a charity sale, and was at once absorbed in sandwiches, tea and coffee, orangeade, and all the requirements for such an occasion.  She was perfectly practical and gave us some very useful hints—­said she supposed we wanted some of their maitres d’hotel.  We thought not—­our own would do.  That, she said, would be a great mistake.  They weren’t accustomed to that sort of thing and wouldn’t know how to do it.  One thing, for instance—­they would certainly fill all the glasses of orangeade and punch much too full and would waste a great deal.  Their men never filled a glass entirely, and consequently gained two on every dozen.  She told us how much we wanted, made out the estimate at once, and ended by asking if we would allow them to present the tea as their contribution to the charity.  It didn’t take more than twenty minutes—­the whole thing.  She then shut up her book, went to the door with us, thanked us for giving them the order, and hoped we would be satisfied.  That business capability and thriftiness runs through almost all Frenchwomen of a certain class, and when I hear, as of course I often do, the frivolous, butterfly, pleasure-loving Frenchwoman spoken of, that energetic, hard-working bourgeoise comes into my mind.  We all who live in France know the type well.

The whole nation is frugal.  During the Franco-German War, my husband, who had spent all the dreary months of the invasion at his chateau in the country, was elected a member of the Assemblee Nationale, which met at Bordeaux.  They were entirely cut off from Paris, surrounded by Prussian troops on all sides, and he couldn’t get any money.  Whatever he had had at the beginning of the war had been spent—­sending off recruits for one of the great army corps near his place.  It was impossible to communicate with his banker or any friends in Paris, and yet he couldn’t start without funds.  He applied to the notary of La Ferte-Milon, the little town nearest the chateau.  He asked how much he wanted.  W. said about 10,000 francs.  The notary said, “Give me two days