scandal. From five to
seven o'clock you can see people wandering about in quest of scandal,
which they retail from group to group. As you remarked to me, my dear
aunt, tittle-tattle is the mark of petty individuals and petty minds.
It is also the consolation of women who are no longer loved or sought
after. It is enough for me to observe the women who are fondest of
gossiping to be persuaded that you are quite right.

The other day I was present at a musical evening at the Casino, given
by a remarkable artist, Madame Masson, who sings in a truly delightful
manner. I took the opportunity of applauding the admirable Coquelin, as
well as two charming vaudeville performers, M----and Meillet. I met,
on this occasion, all the bathers who were at the beach. It is no great
distinction this year.

Next day I went to lunch at Yport. I noticed a tall man with a beard,
coming out of a large house like a castle. It was the painter, Jean Paul
Laurens. He is not satisfied apparently with imprisoning the subjects of
his pictures, he insists on imprisoning himself.

Then I found myself seated on the shingle close to a man still young,
of gentle and refined appearance, who was reading poetry. But he read it
with such concentration, with such passion, I may say, that he did not
even raise his eyes towards me. I was somewhat astonished and asked the
proprietor of the baths, without appearing to be much concerned, the
name of this gentleman. I laughed to myself a little at this reader of
rhymes; he seemed behind the age, for a man. This person, I thought,
must be a simpleton. Well, aunt, I am now infatuated about this
stranger. Just fancy, his name is Sully Prudhomme! I went back and sat
down beside him again so as to get a good look at him. His face has an
expression of calmness and of penetration. Somebody came to look for
him, and I heard his voice, which is sweet and almost timid. He would
certainly not tell obscene stories aloud in public or knock up against
ladies without apologizing. He is assuredly a man of refinement, but his
refinement is of an almost morbid, sensitive character, I will try this
winter to get an introduction to him.

I have no more news, my dear aunt, and I must finish this letter in
haste, as the mail will soon close. I kiss your hands and your cheeks.
Your devoted niece, BERTHE DE X.

P. S.--I should add, however, by way of justification of French
politeness, that our fellow-countrymen a