men who turn to look after me. If you hear any of them say, "_Comme
elle est jolie!_" (How pretty she is!) you shall have my _batiste
mouchoirs_.'"

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 _propriété_ and rustic _chalet_ to
exhibit their candidates. The method of procedure is eminently French,
of course, and eminently naïve, as even the intrigues and machinations
of Balzac's _bourgeoisie_, although intended as marvels of finesse,
seem so often naïveté 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 café-keeper in the town desired to sell his
café and marry his daughter. Monsieur Brissom mentioned to him our
café-keepers blessed with marriageable daughters, and "Commy" made the
rounds among them, announcing that he had a son whom he wished to marry