Liane de Pougy sits now in the garden of the National, for the crowds nearly suffocated her on the quai. She is very beautiful and dresses very quietly; you would never dream that she is as well known in Paris as a monument or a boulevard. A young Frenchman has for the last two days been doing his best to attract her attention by sitting near her, and pretending to read her "L'Insaisissable." I believe that since her arrival there are nearly as many copies of this roman vécu, as she calls it, as Baedekers at the National. It is hard to say which is the most interesting—herself or her book. I caught her looking at the old Maréchale de Vichy-Pontoise yesterday with the most untranslatable expression. I am not quite sure but that in spite of her triumphs she would change places with the Maréchale if she could, and wear the old harridan's moustache and the daguerreotype brooch of the late Maréchal and feed Bijou and all. As it is, not a woman at the National would dream of speaking to her, and the Maréchale would as soon think of strangling Bijou as of sitting down at the same table as the famous Liane.
A Comedy
Blanche has just come in to say that a Count Fosca has arrived at the National, having automobiled all the way from Paris, and that the Vicomte is completely bouleversé. She is laughing so over something that Thérèse is telling her that I cannot write any more.
I can only catch the words, "Mrs. Johnson," "Prince di Spezzia," "Ascenseur," "no lights." I leave it to you to make a comedy out of the missing links.—Your dearest Mamma.
LETTER XV
Hotel National, Lucerne
3rd September
Darling Elizabeth:
A Mishap