ional marriages, as well as
the high contracting parties, who will relate the price paid for the
husband, and who the intermediary was, and how much commission he or
she received, is to make you turn faint and sick at the mere thought,
especially if you happen to come from a country where they once fought
to abolish the buying and selling of human beings. But our black
slaves were above buying and selling themselves or their children. It
remains for civilized Europe of our time to do this, and the highest
and proudest of her people at that.

It is not so shocking to read about it in glittering generalities. I
knew of it in a vague way, just as I knew the history of the massacre
of Saint Bartholomew. I thought it was too bad that so many people
were killed, and I also thought it a pity that Frenchmen never married
without a _dot_. But when it comes to meeting the people who had thus
bargained, and the moment their gorgeous lace and satin backs were
turned to hear some one say, "You are always so interested in that
sort of thing, have you heard what a scandal was caused by the
marriage of those two?"--then it ceases to be history; then it becomes
almost a family affair.

"How could a marriage between two unattached young people cause a
scandal?" I asked, with my stupid, primitive American ideas.

"Oh, the bride's mother refused to pay the commission to the
intermediary," was the airy reply. "It came near getting into the
papers."

At the Jubilee garden party at Lady Monson's I saw the most beautiful
French girl I have seen in Paris. She was superb. In America she would
have been a radiant, a triumphant beauty, and probably would have
acquired the insolent manners of some of our spoiled beauties. Instead
of that, however, she was modest, even timid-looking, except for her
queenly carriage. Her gown was a dream, and a dream of a dress at a
Paris garden party means something.

"What a tearing beauty!" I said to my companion. "Who is she?"

"Yes, poor girl!" he said. "She is the daughter of the Comtesse N----.
One of the prettiest girls in Paris. Not a sou, however; consequently
she will never marry. She will probably go into a convent."

"But why? Why won't she marry? Why aren't all the men crazy about her?
Why don't you marry her?"

"Marry a girl without a _dot_? Thank you, mademoiselle. I am an
expense to myself. My wife must not be an additional encumbrance."

"But surely," I said, "somebody will want to marry