“Well, Monsieur Whitmore!” cried Madame Tousseau, gayly, “here at last you’ve found a place where you can’t possibly help enjoying yourself.”
“For my part,” answered the American, slowly, “I find no enjoyment in seeing the people who haven’t money making fools of themselves to please the people who have.”
“Oh, you’re incorrigible!” laughed the young wife. “But I must compliment you on the excellent French you are speaking to-day.”
After exchanging a few more words, they lost each other in the crowd; Mr. Whitmore was going back to Paris immediately.
Madame Tousseau’s compliment was quite sincere. As a rule the grave American talked deplorable French, but the answer he had made to Madame was almost correct. It seemed as though it had been well thought out in advance—as though a whole series of impressions had condensed themselves into these words. Perhaps that was why his answer sank so deep into the minds of Monsieur and Madame Tousseau.
Neither of them thought it a particularly brilliant remark; on the contrary, they agreed that it must be miserable to take so gloomy a view of things. But, nevertheless, his words left something rankling. They could not laugh so lightly as before, Madame felt tired, and they began to think of getting homewards.
Just as they turned to go down the long street of booths in order to find their carriage, they met a noisy crew coming upward.
“Let us take the other way,” said Monsieur.
They passed between two booths, and emerged at the back of one of the rows. They stumbled over the tree-roots before their eyes got used to the uncertain light which fell in patches between the tents. A dog, which lay gnawing at something or other, rose with a snarl, and dragged its prey further into the darkness, among the trees.
On this side the booths were made up of old sails and all sorts of strange draperies. Here and there light shone through the openings, and at one place Madame distinguished a face she knew.