their _cour_ at the point of the bayonet to deprive them of the sight of
their admirers. In addition, it was dry bread or _cabinot_ for any of
either sex who were caught communicating with each other. Moreover the
promenades of the men and the women occurred at roughly speaking the same
hour, so that a man or woman who remained upstairs on the chance of
getting a smile or a wave from his or her girl or lover lost the
promenade thereby....

We had in succession gazed from the windows, crossed the end of the room,
and started down the other side, Monsieur Auguste marching between
us--when suddenly B. exclaimed in English "Good morning! How are you
today?" And I looked across Monsieur Auguste, anticipating another Harree
or at least a Fritz. What was my surprise to see a spare majestic figure
of manifest refinement, immaculately apparelled in a crisp albeit
collarless shirt, carefully mended trousers in which the remains of a
crease still lingered, a threadbare but perfectly fitting swallow-tail
coat, and newly varnished (if somewhat ancient) shoes. Indeed for the
first time since my arrival at La Ferte I was confronted by a perfect
type: the apotheosis of injured nobility, the humiliated victim of
perfectly unfortunate circumstances, the utterly respectable gentleman
who had seen better days. There was about him, moreover, something
irretrievably English, nay even pathetically Victorian--it was as if a
page of Dickens was shaking my friend's hand. "Count Bragard, I want you
to meet my friend Cummings"--he saluted me in modulated and courteous
accents of indisputable culture, gracefully extending his pale hand. "I
have heard a great deal about you from B., and wanted very much to meet
you. It is a pleasure to find a friend of my friend B., someone congenial
and intelligent in contrast to these swine"--he indicated the room with a
gesture of complete contempt. "I see you were strolling. Let us take a
turn." Monsieur Auguste said tactfully, "I'll see you soon, friends," and