On Sunday afternoons all the bourgeois world of our ville disports itself upon the jetty.  Not only then do all the mothers of the town with daughters “to marry” bring those daughters to the weekly matrimonial mart, but many of the mothers and chaperons of the near country round about come in from rural propriete and rustic chalet to exhibit their candidates.  The method of procedure is eminently French, of course, and eminently naive, as even the intrigues and machinations of Balzac’s bourgeoisie, although intended as marvels of finesse, seem so often naivete itself to our blunter and less-plotting minds.  The mothers and daughters, or chaperons and charges, walk slowly arm in arm up and down one side the jetty, facing the counter-current of young men and men not young who have not lost interest in feminine attractions.  Back and forth, back and forth, for hours, move the two separate streams, never for one instant commingling, each discussing the other’s prospects, characters, appearance, and, above all, dots and rentes, till twilight falls and all the world goes home to dinner.

Once upon a time a retired man of business came to our ville, accompanied by his son.  He was one of the class known in England as “Commys,” and so obnoxious in France as commis-voyageurs. He stopped at the Cheval Blanc, and in conversation with mine host inquired if it might chance that some cafe-keeper in the town desired to sell his cafe and marry his daughter.  Monsieur Brissom mentioned to him our cafe-keepers blessed with marriageable daughters, and “Commy” made the rounds among them, announcing that he had a son whom he wished to marry to some charming demoiselle doted with a cafe.  One of the cafe-keepers had “precisement votre affaire.”  It was arranged that Mademoiselle Clothilde should be promenaded by her mother the next Sunday on the jetty, where the young man should join the counter-current, and thus each take observations of the other.

As said, so done.  Monsieur Henri and Mademoiselle Clothilde declared themselves enchanted with each other.

“Tres-bien,” said the reflective parents.  “Now fall in love as fast as ever you please.”

Monsieur and mademoiselle not only “fell,” but plunged.

Two weeks afterward, however, the papas fell out.  Cafetier exacted more than Commis could promise, and Commis declared Mademoiselle Clothilde pas grand’ chose:  her eyebrows were too white, and her toes turned in.

The marriage was declared “off,” and the young people were ordered to fall out of love the quickest possible.

“Too late!” they cried.

“You have seen each other but four times.”

“Quite enough,” declared the lovers.

“You shall not marry,” shouted the parents.

“We will!” screamed their offspring.

Nevertheless they could not, for the French law gives almost absolute power to parents.  Mademoiselle would have no dot unless her father chose to give her one, and no French marriage is legal without paternal consent or the almost disgraceful expedient of sommations respectueuses.  Mademoiselle threatened to enter a convent.  Cafetier assured her that no convent opens cordial doors to dotless girls.