“And well he may,” rejoined my friend. “There is nothing more tiresome than a residence in a provincial town of France.”
“What surprises me most,” resumed I, “is that the French in this country take so little interest in politics.”
“That is easily accounted for,” observed my friend. “Politics, in France, are the exclusive occupation of editors, from whom the people receive their daily allowance, with such seasoning as suits the peculiarity of their taste: in America, on the contrary, every man is called upon to take an active part in them, which is more than a man is willing to do who is as fond of amusement as a Frenchman.”
While he was delivering his opinion in this manner, an elderly gentleman rose from behind a marble slab table, and, seizing the hand of my friend, exclaimed, in an accent which very strongly resembled the Gascon,
“Que diable! faites-vous ici à cette heure-ci? Je croyais toujours qu’il n’y avait que les Français qui se tenaient débout après minuit! Et n’avez-vous pas peur qu’on vous dénonce demain dans les journaux,—vous qui êtes un homme public?”
“Taisez-vous donc, monsieur,” whispered my friend; “vous me trahissez.”
“Is de gentleman vid you an American?” demanded the Frenchman in a low voice, and in broken English.
“To all intents and purposes he is,” answered my friend.
“Je vous comprends,” said the Frenchman with a significant nod. “’Tis is a very fine evening, sar!”
“Very fine, indeed,” responded I.