Zélie, for example, asked her roundly (as one of a trade to another): “Tu cherches un callage, hein? On fais l’indépendante?”
Miss looked a little puzzled, but answered tentatively, “Non, pas college. Je suis artiste.”
Whereat one or two of us stared, thinking it meaningless; one or two smiled, thinking it doubly-meaning; but the majority heeded it not; and no one paused to consider the depths of ignorance (unless, indeed, ignorance of the French language) that the reply might indicate. I should perhaps add that with us the young ladies who dance at Bullier’s, sing at the concerts apéritifs, or serve in the brasseries-à-femmes, style themselves artistes.
At the end of the dinner, when the stuff that Madame Bourdon euphemistically calls coffee was brought in, we all broke out in loud accord with a song that time-honoured custom has prescribed for the event and moment. We are never treated to this beverage at the Hôtel de l’.céan et de Shakespere, except on the advent of a nouveau or a nouvelle, when it is charged to his or her account; and here is the salute with which we hail it:—
A la recherch’ de la paternité!
Chaforé?
Accident arrivé
A l’amèr’ Chicorée
Par liaison passagère
‘Vec le père