"But yes. I will tell you," said the Princess. "I am of Normandy. You did not know? Yes, I am of Normandy. I was born there in a little village by the sea. Such a very little town. I can see it now. My father was a fisherman. Big and brown and strong, my father—and kind. But yes, of a kindness. He loved me, and I—I adored him. My mother was good—an honest woman, but it was my father whom I adored. When he was at home I trotted always at his heels—une toute petite bébé, brown and plump and laughing always."
There was a big rock in the harbour—an immense jagged rock in the water. The waves washed over it always, save on one day during the month. Then it was quite out of the water and it lay there like a great spider in the sunshine, with long legs running out into the foam. Along the coast they called it l'Araignée.
"It fascinated me, that big rock spider. All the month I watched for it, and when it came up out of the sea I cried to be taken out to it. My father took me. He was like that always—très indulgent, mon père, and I—what I wanted I must have.
"He would carry me down to his boat and row out to the rock and then we would eat our luncheon there, and he would tell me stories and I would play—une bébé, vous savez. I had then but four years, and I was happy—Dieu, que j'étais heureuse. The fisher-folk came to know me there on my rock, to look for us, mon père et moi, and they called me la Princesse d'Araignée. Yes, that was my name. Everyone called me that, smiling, and I was proud.
"One does not stay always a baby. I grew up, and the father died. It was dull there in the little Norman village. I wanted excitement, and—what I wanted I must have, I was always like that.
"The story tells itself after that, n'est-ce pas? I came to Paris, and I found the excitement. But one does not use the name of an honest father here in Paris. Il était tellement bon, mon père.
"I remembered that I had been a princess and I took my title once more. La Princesse d'Araignée! You see it is really mine, the title. The rock is still there in the sea,—but, mon père et moi—"
A far cry from the Palais du Glace, yet not so far after all, as memories go; for the Princesse d'Araignée was at the Palais du Glace one December afternoon long ago, and her king was by her side.
If one does not skate, still one goes to the skating-rink. The promenade is crowded on popular afternoons with all the types familiar in leisure Paris. Women in airy gowns and picture hats furnish effective contrast to the feminine skaters in their short skirts and jaunty toques. A fragrance of flowers and perfumes floats in the air, the ring of the skates sounds through the swinging melody of the music. Once more the Parisian artificiality—once more the Parisian charm.
On one afternoon in the week the crowd at the Palais takes on a most chic and exclusive tone. The prices are higher on that day, but high prices would never shut out the cocotte and her following. Quite the reverse. An unwritten law accomplishes what the increased prices would not accomplish, and Friday afternoon smart society claims the rink for its own. That is le jour chic at the Palais de Glace. If one goes on other days—as one does—there is a fair field and no favour.