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Nothing, however, could exceed the luxury, the felicity and the good company of those memorable three months chez l'Avenue de Courcelles, Pare Monceau.
French and German will certainly be aggregating languages during the greater portion of the coming years. Of the two I am inclined to think French will spread further than German. There is a disposition in the world, which the French share, to grossly undervalue the prospects of all things French, derived, so far as I can gather, from the facts that the French were beaten by the Germans in 1870, and that they do not breed with the abandon of rabbits or negroes. These are considerations that affect the dissemination of French very little. The French reading public is something different and very much larger than the existing French political system. The number of books published in French is greater than that published in English; there is a critical reception for a work published in French that is one of the few things worth a writer's having, and the French translators are the most alert and efficient in the world. One has only to see a Parisian bookshop, and to recall an English one, to realize the as yet unattainable standing of French. The serried ranks of lemon-coloured volumes in the former have the whole range of human thought and interest; there are no taboos and no limits, you have everything up and down the scale, from frank indecency to stark wisdom. It is a shop for men. I remember my amazement to discover three copies of a translation of that most wonderful book, the Text-book of Psychology of Professor William James,[ERRATUM: for 'The Text Book of Psychology, read 'The Principles of Psychology'.] in a shop in L'Avenue de l'Opera three copies of a book that I have never seen anywhere in England outside my own house, and I am an attentive student of bookshop windows! And the French books are all so pleasant in the page, and so cheap they are for a people that buys to read. One thinks of the English bookshop, with its gaudy reach-me-downs of gilded and embossed cover, its horribly printed novels still more horribly "illustrated," the exasperating pointless variety in the size and thickness of its books. The general effect of the English book is that it is something sold by a dealer in bric-
He thought of others like her that he knew, and he spoke very tenderly. "No, Mariette," he said. "If I came back I might spoil a memory. Good-bye. God bless you!" and he held out his hand. She hesitated a second. Then she turned back to the taxi. "Where would you like to go?" he demanded. She leaned out and glanced up at the clock. "L'Avenue de l'Opéra," she said, "s'il vous plait."
"First you will go round the lake," said Madame Wolsky to the driver, "and then you will take us to the Pension Malfait, in l'Avenue des Acacias." Under shady trees, bowling along sanded roads lined with pretty villas and châlets, they drove all round the lake, and more and more the place impressed Sylvia as might have done a charming piece of scene-painting.
Nothing, however, could exceed the luxury, the felicity and the good company of those memorable three months chez l'Avenue de Courcelles, Pare Monceau. We never tried a pension again. We chose a delightful hotel in the Rue de Castiglione off the Rue de Rivoli, and remained there as fixtures until we were reckoned the oldest inhabitants.
He couldn't trouble the lady about it, naturally, because it is technically an offense against the law. Come, let's go and find a quiet corner where we can continue our conversation comfortably. There's a painfully respectable little hotel around the corner here that looks like the Café L'avenue when you first go in, but is a place where the most bourgeoise of one's aunts might put up."
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