for the mere pleasure of looking at them, and forbid anybody to taste them, really seems to be one of the finest inventions of the human mind.
The Fine Arts are—in preparation! Yet some halls are open, where one may see very fine landscapes by Harpignies, Guillemet, Le Poittevin, a superb portrait of Mademoiselle Alice Regnault by Courtois, a delightful Béraud, etc. As for the rest—when they are unpacked!
As one must see everything on visiting a place, I will treat myself to an air trip in the balloon of MM. Godard and Company.
The mistral is blowing. The balloon is swaying in an uneasy way. Suddenly there is an explosion; the cords of the net have broken. The public is forbidden to come within the enclosure, and I also am turned out.
I climb upon my carriage and survey the scene.
Every moment another rope snaps with a singular noise, and the brown skin of the balloon attempts to rise from the meshes that hold it. Then suddenly, under a more violent gust of wind, there is an immense tear from top to bottom of the great ball, which falls together like a limp cloth, torn and dead.
The next morning on awakening I call for the newspapers and read with astonishment:
“The tempest now raging on our coast has compelled the management of the captive and free balloons of Nice to empty its great aerostat, in order to avoid accidents. The system of instantaneous emptying used by M. Godard is one of his inventions that redound most to his honour.”
Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh, the dear public!
The entire coast of the Mediterranean is the Eldorado of the chemists. One must be ten times a millionaire to dare purchase even a simple box of cough drops from these haughty merchants, who ask the price of diamonds for their jujubes.
One can go from Nice to Monaco via La Corniche, along the sea coast. There is nothing more charming than this road cut in the rock, which skirts gulfs, passes under arches, and turns and twists along the mountain through wonderful country.
Here is Monaco on its rock, and behind it Monte Carlo. Hush! I can understand how those who like to gamble adore this pretty little town. But how sombre and sad it is for those who do not gamble! There is no other pleasure, no other attraction.
Farther on is Mentone, the hottest place on the coast, and the one most frequented by invalids. There oranges ripen and consumptives are cured.
I take the night train to return to Cannes. In my compartment there are two ladies and a man from Marseilles who is determined to tell stories of railway accidents, murders, and thefts.
“I once knew a Corsican, madame, who came to Paris with his son. I speak of long ago, in the early days of the P.L.M. railway. I joined them, since we were friends, and off we went.
“The son, who was twenty years old, was utterly amazed at the running of the train, and stood leaning out of the window all the time to watch it. His father kept repeating to him: ‘Heh! Take care, Mathéo! Don’t lean out too far, or you may hurt yourself.’ But the boy did not even answer.
“I said to the father:
“ ‘Let him do it, if it amuses him.’
“But the father repeated:
“ ‘Come now, Mathéo, don’t lean out like that.’
“Then, as the son did not answer, he took him by the coat to make him come back into the carriage, and gave it a pull. And then the body fell back on our knees. He was minus his head, madame, for it had been cut off by a tunnel. And the neck was not even bleeding any longer; all the blood had flowed along the line.”
One of the ladies heaved a sigh, closed her eyes, and sank upon her neighbour. She had fainted.
The Patron
He would never have dared to hope that such good fortune would be his! The son of a provincial Sheriff, Jean Marin had come to Paris, like so many others, to study law in the Latin Quarter. In the various cafés which he had successively patronized, he had made friends with a number of talkative students, who chattered about politics as they drank their beer. He developed great admiration for them and became their follower, even paying for their drinks when he happened to have any money.
Afterwards, he practised law and handled some suits, which he lost, when, one morning, he read in the papers that a friend of his student days had become a deputy. Again he became his faithful servant, the friend who discharges all the troublesome errands, whom one sends for when he is wanted, and with whom one stands on no ceremony.
But it so happened, by the chance of politics, that the deputy became a minister, and six months afterwards, Jean Marin was appointed State Councillor.
At first, he was so puffed up with pride that he almost lost his head. He would take walks just to show himself off, as if the people he met in the street could guess his position just by looking at him. He always managed to say to the various tradespeople he dealt with, as well as to the newsdealers and even the cabmen:
“I, who am a State Councillor …”
He naturally experienced, as the direct result of his profession and his newly acquired dignity, an imperative desire to patronize. He would offer his influence to everyone he met, at all times, and with inexhaustible generosity.
When he ran up against a man he knew on the boulevard, he would rush up to him in a delighted manner, shake hands, inquire after his health and then, without waiting for any inquiry, would blurt out:
“You know I am State Councillor, and I am absolutely at your service. If there is anything I can do for you, I hope you will call on me unhesitatingly. In my position, a man can do a lot for his friends.”
Then he would go into
