e his course by
a short address to his class in which he remarked: "Mesdemoiselles! La
chose la plus importante du monde c'est la danse!" (the most important
thing in the world is dancing.) Perhaps he was right. In that case I
must add that the next most important thing in the world is the French
language; at least to a foreigner on the continent of Europe. Without
that you do not know anything. You are a straw man. You are a deaf and
dumb creature. Ladies gaze at you with compassion, gentlemen with
contempt, children with wonder, while waiters quiz you, cheat you, and
make the imaginary mill behind your back.

Impressed with the inconvenience of this position, I had long ago
commenced a siege of the French language. I studied it _a fond_. I
looked into every _y_ and _en_. I had attended the French theatre as a
school, and profited by the performances. The company was excellent,
particularly one young girl, Mlle. Fontaine. Her playing was
unsurpassable. She knew always when to go on and when to stop. Perfect
simplicity, a taste never at fault, delightful humor, a high tragic
power; to these add a lovely face, a beautiful form, grace in every
movement, a voice just as sweet as a voice could be, and you have a dim
idea of Mlle. Fontaine. In her private life, moreover, she enjoyed the
reputation of being without reproach. The whole world repeated of her
the old saying: "Elle n'a qu'un defaut, celui de mettre de l'esprit
partout!" (She has but one fault: she touches nothing without importing
to it a charm of her own.)

When M. Delille came out, Mlle. Fontaine and he generally played
together, amid thundering plaudits of overflowing audiences. Delille
himself was a perfect artist. The French theatre was in its glory.

One morning, hard at work in my office, I was surprised by a card,
"Monsieur Delille, du Theatre Francais." The gentleman wished to have
the honor of a few moments' conversation.

The theatre and all the various personages of its imaginary world were
so completely apart from my real life, that I could scarcely have been
more surprised at receiving a card from Louis XIV., or hearing that the
General Napoleon Bonaparte was waiting at the door, and desired the
honor of my acquaintance.

M. Delille entered, hat in hand, with bow and smile, as I had so often
seen him do in the theatre drawing-rooms. We had a pleasant chat. He
spoke no English, which forced upon me the necessity of exhibiting my
dazzling French