one could have located the man with the fierce moustaches and the fur
coat by the presence of his pepper-mill, or the place of "Madame" from
her prodigal habit of rending a quarter-yard of the crusty French bread
in twain and consuming only the soft inside.

From the ignorance of our cursory acquaintance we had judged the French
a sociable nation. Our stay at Versailles speedily convinced us of the
fallacy of that belief. Nothing could have impressed us so forcibly as
did the frigid silence that characterised the company. Many of them had
fed there daily for years, yet within the walls of the sunny dining-room
none exchanged even a salutation. This unexpected taciturnity in a
people whom we had been taught to regard as lively and voluble made us
almost ashamed of our own garrulity, and when, in the presence of the
silent company, we were tempted to exchange remarks, we found ourselves
doing it in hushed voices as though we were in church.

A clearer knowledge, however, showed us that though some unspoken
convention rendered the hotel guests oblivious of each other's presence
while indoors, beyond the hotel walls they might hold communion. Two
retired military men, both wearing the red ribbon of the Legion of
Honour, as indeed did most of our _habitués_, sat at adjacent tables.
One, tall and thin, was a Colonel; the other, little and neat, a Colonel
also. To the casual gaze they appeared complete strangers, and we had
consumed many meals in their society before observing that whenever the
tall Colonel had sucked the last cerise from his glass of _eau-de-vie_,
and begun to fold his napkin--a formidable task, for the serviettes
fully deserved the designation later bestowed on them by the Boy, of
"young table-cloths"--the little Colonel made haste to fold his also.
Both rose from their chairs at the same instant, and the twain, having
received their hats from the attentive Iorson, vanished, still mute,