We returned by the Boulevards, where crowds of citizens, in their holiday dresses, were making merry; the young dancing cotillons, the old beating time to the music, and applauding the dancers, all in a careless oblivion of the past, thoughtless of the future, and totally occupied with the present.—These people seem very happy, said I.—Happy! exclaimed B——; if they had common sense or reflection, they would be miserable. Why so?—Could not the minister, answered he, pick out half a dozen of them, if he pleased, and clap them into the Bicetre?—That is true indeed, said I; that is a catastrophe which, to be sure, may very probably happen, and yet I thought no more of it than they.
We met, a few days after he arrived, at a French house where we had both been invited to dinner. There was an old lady of quality present, next to whom a young officer was seated, who paid her the utmost attention.—He helped her to the dishes she liked, filled her glass with wine or water, and addressed his discourse particularly to her.—What a fool, says B——, does that young fellow make of the poor old woman! If she were my mother, d—n me, if I would not call him to an account for it.—
Though B—— understands French, and speaks it better than most Englishmen, he had no relish for the conversation, soon left the company, and has refused all invitations to dinner ever since. He generally finds some of our countrymen who dine and pass the evening with him at the Parc Royal.
After the review this day, we continued together, and being both disengaged, I proposed, by way of variety, to dine at the public ordinary of the Hôtel de Bourbon. He did not like this much at first.—I shall be teased, says he, with their confounded ceremony:—But on my observing, that we could not expect much ceremony or politeness at a public ordinary, he agreed to go.
Our entertainment turned out different, however, from my expectations and his wishes: A marked attention was paid us the moment we entered; every body seemed inclined to accommodate us with the best places. They helped us first, and all the company seemed ready to sacrifice every little conveniency and distinction to the strangers: For, next to that of a lady, the most respected character at Paris is that of a stranger.
After dinner, B—— and I walked into the gardens of the Palais Royal.
There was nothing real in all the fuss those people made about us, says he.
I can’t help thinking it something, said I, to be treated with civility and apparent kindness in a foreign country—by strangers who know nothing about us, but that we are Englishmen, and often their enemies.
But their politeness consists in trifles, said he.—In what consists any body’s politeness? rejoined I.—The utmost a Frenchman will do for you, added he, is to endeavour to amuse you, and make your time pass agreeably while you remain in his country. And I think that no trifle, answered I.—There are so many sources of uneasiness and vexation in this life, that I cannot help having a good will, and even gratitude, to all those who enable me to forget them:—For such people alleviate my pain, and contribute to my happiness.
But these Frenchmen, rejoined he, do not care a farthing for you in their hearts.—And why should I care a farthing for that? said I.—We have nothing to do with their hearts.—You do not expect a friend in every agreeable acquaintance.