N N. was a Parisian.
But N N. did not live in Paris. Drop a Parisian in the provinces,
and you drop a part of Paris with him. Drop him in Senegambia, and
in three days he will give you an omelette soufflee, or a pate de
foie gras, served by the neatest of Senegambian filles, whom he
will call Mademoiselle. In three weeks he will give you an opera.
N N. was not dropped in Senegambia, but in San Francisco,--quite as
awkward.
They find gold in San Francisco, but they don't understand gilding.
N N. existed three years in this place. He became bald on the top
of his head, as all Parisians do. Look down from your box at the
Opera Comique, Mademoiselle, and count the bald crowns of the fast
young men in the pit. Ah--you tremble! They show where the arrows
of love have struck and glanced off.
N N. was also near-sighted, as all Parisians finally become. This
is a gallant provision of Nature to spare them the mortification of
observing that their lady friends grow old. After a certain age
every woman is handsome to a Parisian.
One day, N N. was walking down Washington street. Suddenly he
stopped.
He was standing before the door of a mantuamaker.
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