SALUBRITIES ABROAD.
Still at Royat. Hotel Continental.—À propos of Puller "airing his French" Miss Louisa Metterbrun said something delightful to him the other day at dinner. Puller had been instructing us all in some French idioms until Madame Metterbrun set him right in his pronunciation. He owned that he had made a slip. "But," says he, wagging his head and pulling up his wristbands with the air of a man thoroughly well satisfied with himself generally, "but I think you'll allow that I can speak French better than most Englishmen, eh?"
Madame Metterbrun doesn't exactly know what to say, but Miss Louisa comes to the rescue. "O Mr. Puller"—he is frequently at their house in London, and they know him intimately—"I always say to Mamma, when we're abroad, that I do like to hear you talk French"—Puller smirks and thinks to himself that this is a girl of sense and rare appreciation—"because," she goes on quietly, and all at table are listening, "because your speaking French reminds me so of home." Her home is London. I think Puller won't ask Miss Louisa for an opinion on his French accent again in a hurry.
I have just been reading Victor Hugo's Choses Vues. Admirable! Fuite de Louis Philippe! What a pitiful story. Then his account, marvellously told, and the whole point of the narrative given in two lines, of what became of the brain of Talleyrand. Graphically written is his visit to Thiers on behalf of Rochefort. Says Thiers to him, "Cent journaux me traînent tous les matins dans la boue. Mais savez-vous mon procédé? Je ne les lis pas." To which Hugo rejoined, "C'est précisément ce que je fais. Lire les diatribes, c'est respirer les latrines de sa renommée." Most public men, certainly most authors, artists, and actors, would do well to remember this advice, and act upon it.
"Choses Vues," written "Shows Vues" would be a good heading for an all-round-about theatrical and entertainment article in Mr. Punch's pages. Patent this.
Puller has recovered his high spirits. The temperature has changed: the waters are agreeing with him. So is the dinner hour, which M. Hall, our landlord, kindly permits us to have at the exceptional and un-Royat-like hour of 7·30. At dinner he is convivial. Madame Metterbrun and her two daughters are discussing music. Cousin Jane is deeply interested in listening to Madame Metterbrun on Wagner. The young Ladies are thorough Wagnerites. La Contessa is unable to get a word in about Shakspeare and Salvini, and her daughter, who, in a quiet tone and with a most deliberate manner, announces herself as belonging to the "Take-everything-easy Society," is not at this particular moment interested in anything except the menu, which she is lazily scrutinising through her long-handled pince-nez.
Mrs. Dinderlin, having succumbed to the usual first attack of Royat depression, is leaning back in her chair, smelling salts and nodding assent to the Wagnerite theories, with which she entirely agrees. For my own part, I am neutral; but as the Metterbruns are thorough musicians,—the mother being a magnificent pianist, and the eldest daughter a composer,—I am really interested in hearing all they have to say on the subject. Our bias is, temporarily, decidedly Wagnerian, for Cousin Jane, who is really in favour of "tune," and plenty of it,—being specially fond of Bellini and Donizetti,—in scientific musical society has not the courage of her opinions.