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Page 27
"Just so. All the same there's a good deal going on in Paris after
supper."
"So I've always been told," said the Senator, lighting another cigar.
"They've got what you might call characteristic shows here. You see a
lot of life."
"Can you take your ladies?" asked the Senator.
"Well of course you _can_, but I don't believe they would find it
interesting."
"Too much life," said the Senator. "I guess that settles it for me too.
I daresay I'm lacking in originality and enterprise, but I generally ask
myself about an entertainment, 'Are Mrs. and Miss Wick likely to enjoy
it?' If so, well and good. If not, I don't as a rule take it in."
"He's a great comfort that way," remarked momma to Mrs. Malt.
"Oh, I don't _frequent_ them myself," said Mr. Malt defensively.
"Talking of improprieties," remarked Miss Callis, "have you seen the
New Salon?"
There was something very unexpected about Miss Callis; momma complained
of it. Her remarks were never polished by reflection. She called herself
a child of nature, but she really resided in Brooklyn.
The Senator said we had not.
"Then don't you go, Mr. Wick. There's a picture there----"
"We never look at such pictures, Miss Callis," momma interrupted.
"It's _so_ French," said Miss Callis.
Momma drew her shawl round her preparatory to withdrawing, but it was
too late.
"Too French for words," continued Miss Callis. "The poet Lamartine, with
a note-book and pencil in his hand, seated in a triumphal chariot, drawn
through the clouds by beautiful Muses."
"Oh," said momma, in a relieved voice, "there's nothing so dreadfully
French about that."
"You should have seen it," said Miss Callis. "It was simply immoral.
Lamartine was in a frock coat!"
"There could have been nothing objectionable in that," momma repeated.
"I suppose the Muses----"
"The Muses were not in frock coats. They were dressed in their
traditions," replied Miss Callis, "but they couldn't save the situation,
poor dears."
Momma looked as if she wished she had the courage to ask Miss Callis to
explain.
"In picture galleries," remarked poppa, "we've seen only the Luxembourg
and the Louvre. The Louvre, I acknowledge, is worthy of a second visit.
But I don't believe we'll have time to get round again."
"We've got to get a hustle on ourselves in a day or two," said Mr. Malt,
as we separated for the night. "There's all Italy and Switzerland
waiting for us, and they're bound to be done, because we've got circular
tickets. But there's something about this town that I hate to leave."
"He doesn't know whether it's the Arc de Triomphe on the Bois de
Boulogne or the Opera Comique, or what," said Mrs. Malt in affectionate
criticism. "But we've been here a week over our time now, and he doesn't
seem able to tear himself away."
"I'll tell you what it is," exclaimed Mr. Malt, producing a newspaper,
"it's this little old _New York Herald_. There's no use comparing it
with any American newspaper, and it wouldn't be fair to do so; but I
wonder these French rags, in a foreign tongue, aren't ashamed to be
published in the same capital with it. It doesn't take above a quarter
of an hour to read in the mornings, but it's a quarter of an hour of
solid comfort that you don't expect somehow abroad. If the _New York
Herald_ were only published in Rome I wouldn't mind going there."
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