MY SUITORS
November —, 18—.
Just as I was going up to my room, Monday night, mama kissed me, and said in the severe tone which she reserves for communications touching my marriage: "Juliette, two gentlemen will dine with us Thursday. Consider it settled. You know what you must do." I considered it settled, certainly; but mama was mistaken in one thing—I was in absolute ignorance as to what I must do. What is there for a young girl to do from Monday till Thursday, when she is to be inspected by two suitors for her hand? I can not change in face or form, and I really haven't the time to learn a new language, one of those tongues which possess, so mama says, such a powerful attraction for marriageable men! Nor have I even the time to order a new gown. I have decided, therefore, to remain just as I am, and to present to those gentlemen Thursday evening the Juliette of Monday, with her pink and white complexion, her five feet four of stature, and the two poor little living languages which she murders atrociously.
Who are these gentlemen? I have a faint suspicion.
Mama will not tell me their names, for she fears my preliminary criticisms. Usually I sit upon her candidates so thoroughly beforehand that she dares not exhibit them. "They are charming men," she declares; "charming, that expresses it. Much too good for a madcap like you. One of them is no longer young; but the other is not yet thirty." That mama of mine has such an adorable way of putting things! She regards my suitors collectively, offsetting the faults of the one with the good qualities of the other. Would she like to have me marry all of them at once, I wonder?
Papa gave me more information. I do anything I choose with papa by a walk to the Champs Elysées in the morning, or a stroll on the boulevards about five o'clock. I walk along with my hands clasped around his right arm, clinging to him, my large gray eyes raised to his white beard as if in adoration. People nudge each other as we pass, and how papa straightens up, and how happy he is! In these moments, if I were not a good girl, I could have my allowance doubled, or all the diamonds in the shop windows. It was on returning from just such a stroll that I questioned my dear old papa about the two musketeers that are to open fire next Thursday. Immediately he grew grave and answered:
"They are two charming men—charming, that expresses it. Much too good for a—"
"Madcap like me. Agreed. Why do you let mama put things into your head, you, who have such sound judgment? It is shameful!"
Now, nothing irritates papa so much as the discovery of mama's exaggerated influence over him.
"Put things into my head! Put things into my head, indeed! I will not permit you to say that your mother puts things into my head. I can judge men at a glance. The duke (papa was a prefect under the Empire) used always to say: 'Givernay—he is my hand and eye.' Do you know that, little one?" I should think I know the saying of the duke. At the age of three I had already heard it told so often in the family that I never said "papa" without immediately adding "hand," "eye."