Then I found myself seated on the shingle close to a man still young, of gentle and refined appearance, who was reading poetry.  But he read it with such concentration, with such passion, I may say, that he did not even raise his eyes towards me.  I was somewhat astonished and asked the proprietor of the baths, without appearing to be much concerned, the name of this gentleman.  I laughed to myself a little at this reader of rhymes; he seemed behind the age, for a man.  This person, I thought, must be a simpleton.  Well, aunt, I am now infatuated about this stranger.  Just fancy, his name is Sully Prudhomme!  I went back and sat down beside him again so as to get a good look at him.  His face has an expression of calmness and of penetration.  Somebody came to look for him, and I heard his voice, which is sweet and almost timid.  He would certainly not tell obscene stories aloud in public or knock up against ladies without apologizing.  He is assuredly a man of refinement, but his refinement is of an almost morbid, sensitive character, I will try this winter to get an introduction to him.

I have no more news, my dear aunt, and I must finish this letter in
haste, as the mail will soon close.  I kiss your hands and your cheeks. 
Your devoted niece,
                    Berthe de X.

P. S.—­I should add, however, by way of justification of French politeness, that our fellow-countrymen are, when travelling, models of good manners in comparison with the abominable English, who seem to have been brought up in a stable, so careful are they not to discommode themselves in any way, while they always discommode their neighbors.

Madame de L. to Madame de X.

Les Fresnes, Saturday. 
My Dear Child: 

Many of the things you have said to me are very sensible, but that does not prevent you from being wrong.  Like you, I used formerly to feel very indignant at the impoliteness of men, who, as I supposed, constantly treated me with neglect; but, as I grew older and reflected on everything, putting aside coquetry, and observing things without taking any part in them myself, I perceived this much—­that if men are not always polite, women are always indescribably rude.

We imagine that we should be permitted to do anything, my darling, and at the same time we consider that we have a right to the utmost respect, and in the most flagrant manner we commit actions devoid of that elementary good-breeding of which you speak so feelingly.

I find, on the contrary, that men consider us much more than we consider them.  Besides, darling, men must needs be, and are, what we make them.  In a state of society, where women are all true gentlewomen, all men would become gentlemen.

Come now; just observe and reflect.