At the watering-places the vulgarity is unrestrained.  I must here make one admission—­that my indignation is perhaps due to the fact that I am not accustomed to associate, as a rule, with the sort of people one comes across here, for I should be less shocked by their manners if I had the opportunity of observing them oftener.  In the office of the hotel I was nearly thrown down by a young man who snatched the key over my head.  Another knocked against me so violently without begging my pardon or lifting his hat, coming away from a ball at the Casino, that it gave me a pain in the chest.  It is the same way with all of them.  Watch them addressing ladies on the terrace; they scarcely ever bow.  They merely raise their hands to their headgear.  But, indeed, as they are all more or less bald, it is the best plan.

But what exasperates and disgusts me particularly is the liberty they take of talking in public, without any kind of precaution, about the most revolting adventures.  When two men are together, they relate to each other, in the broadest language and with the most abominable comments really horrible stories, without caring in the slightest degree whether a woman’s ear is within reach of their voices.  Yesterday, on the beach, I was forced to leave the place where I was sitting in order not to be any longer the involuntary confidante of an obscene anecdote, told in such immodest language that I felt just as humiliated as indignant at having heard it.  Would not the most elementary good-breeding teach them to speak in a lower tone about such matters when we are near at hand.  Etretat is, moreover, the country of gossip and scandal.  From five to seven o’clock you can see people wandering about in quest of scandal, which they retail from group to group.  As you remarked to me, my dear aunt, tittle-tattle is the mark of petty individuals and petty minds.  It is also the consolation of women who are no longer loved or sought after.  It is enough for me to observe the women who are fondest of gossiping to be persuaded that you are quite right.

The other day I was present at a musical evening at the Casino, given by a remarkable artist, Madame Masson, who sings in a truly delightful manner.  I took the opportunity of applauding the admirable Coquelin, as well as two charming vaudeville performers, M——­and Meillet.  I met, on this occasion, all the bathers who were at the beach.  It is no great distinction this year.

Next day I went to lunch at Yport.  I noticed a tall man with a beard, coming out of a large house like a castle.  It was the painter, Jean Paul Laurens.  He is not satisfied apparently with imprisoning the subjects of his pictures, he insists on imprisoning himself.