t the
use of my right arm (for military purposes at any rate), so that France
and myself are quits, and I feel I have a right to express myself on
French topics quite as freely and independently as on any other
country. I thoroughly believe that the French women are the most
charming and certainly the most sensible women (where would France be
now but for the women?), but they are far from being beautiful. They
have not the eyes of the Spanish women, nor the complexion and shapely
figures of the English, nor the brilliant faces of the American women;
but what makes them charming is that they have a little bit of
everything, of which they know how to make the best. The French woman
is an _ensemble_.

It must be admitted that, after praising the women of their own
country, most men award to Spanish women the palm for beauty. The
conclusion must naturally be that the Spanish woman is very beautiful;
but, to my mind, it is a kind of beauty that does not appeal to the
heart or the soul as it does to the senses. Her large eyes, veiled by
thick lashes, her delicate nose and well-formed, ever-moving nostrils,
her undulating form, the suppleness, almost boneless, beautifully
moulded limbs and figure, her vigour, her languor--every fibre of the
Spanish woman's body, I say, appeals to the senses. She does not make
you dream of sentimental walks by moonlight, much less still of a
quiet, happy life in some retired, secluded little cottage. In her
company, you would never dream of being mayor of your city and father
of a numerous family. No, the Spanish woman strikes you as a
bewitchingly beautiful creature, jealous, sensitive, proud, a sort of
mixture of lioness and tigress that would suggest to you the idea of
spending your life sailing on a stormy sea. On looking at her, you
would almost like to start an acquaintance with a quarrel. If I were
married to a fair woman of Andalusia, I would feel that the best
moments of my life would be 'making it up' with her.

* * * * *

If the law of my country made polygamy compulsory, I would make love to
an English woman or a fair daughter of Virginia; I would have my house
kept by a German wife; my artistic inclinations I would trust to a
French woman; my intellectual ones to an American one. Then, when life
got a bit dull and I wanted my blood stirred up, I would call on my
Spanish wife. I would get it.

CHAPTER XXXIII

BLONDES AND BRUNETT