FRENCH INFERIORITY.
One observation Stella makes during the dinner,--namely, that married
people apparently living happily together in Paris suffer quite as much
from a chronic difference of opinion as those in Austria. Baron Rohritz
and Therese do not quarrel one iota less than Jack Leskjewitsch and his
wife.
Although Rohritz, as a former diplomatist,--a career which he abandoned
five years ago on account of a difference with his chief and an
absolute lack of ambition,--and from long residence in Paris, speaks
perfect French, the conversation at his special request is carried on
in German.
During dinner he incessantly makes all kinds of comparisons between
Austria and France, of course to the disadvantage of the latter
country. Nothing suits him in Paris; he abuses everything, from the
perfect cooking, as it appears at his own table, to the exquisite troop
of actors at the Francais.
"I have no objection to make to the fish," he says, condescendingly. "I
am entirely without prejudice; and when there is anything to be praised
in France I always do it justice. But look at the game: French game is
deplorable,--marshy, tasteless, without flavour. Even the Strasburg pie
can be had better in Vienna. Do you not think so?"
"You will be thought an actual ogre, Edmund," Therese remonstrates,
half laughing, half vexed. "You talk of nothing to-day but food."
"Perhaps so; but, as you will have observed, only from a lofty,
strictly patriotic point of view," her husband remarks, composedly.
"Of course," Therese replies. "I can, however, assure you," she says,
turning to her guests, "that although I cannot defend the Parisians in
all respects, in one thing they are far beyond the Viennese: although
they do not fall behind them in cookery, they think much less of things
to eat."
"True," Edmund agrees, "and very naturally; they think less of their
eating because they can't eat; they have no digestion. They certainly
are a weak, degenerate race. Did you ever watch a regiment of French
soldiers march past, ladies, either cavalry or infantry? It is quite
pitiable, their military. Do you not think so?"
The Baroness cannot help admitting that he is measurably right this
time, and as the widow of a soldier she indulges in a hymn of praise of
the Austrian army, thus enchanting the Baron, who before entering the
diplomatic corps served, to complete his education, in a cavalry
regiment.
"I should really like to know why these people are in such a hurry," he
begins again, after a while, calling attention to the speed with which
dinner is being served. "I suppose the rascals intend to go to
Valentino's after dinner."
"Their hurry will do them no good then," Therese remarks, shrugging her
shoulders; "they will have to serve tea later in the evening. I simply
suppose that they take it as a personal affront that we should converse
in a language which they do not understand."
"Possibly," sighs Rohritz. "These Parisian lackeys are intolerable;
their pretensions far outstrip our modest Austrian means. You may read
plainly in their faces, 'I serve, 'tis true, but I adhere to the
immortal principles of '89.' Every fellow is convinced that his period
of servitude is only an intermezzo in his life, and that some fine day
he shall be Duke of Persigny or Malakoff,--in short, a far grander
gentleman than I. Am I not right, Therese?"
"Perfectly," his wife asserts. "But let me ask you one question, my
dear: if you find Paris so inferior in everything, from Strasburg pie
to the domestics, why did you not stay in Vienna?"
"Oh, that is another question,--quite a different question," Rohritz
replies.
"Ah, yes," Therese says, triumphantly. "You must know, ladies, that my
husband's patriotism is not so ardent as would seem, but rather of a
platonic character; he loves his country at a distance. When, five
years ago, after we had been here some time, he gave up his career and
wanted to go back to Vienna, I made no objections whatever, and we
established ourselves in his beloved native city, at first only
provisionally. At the end of six months he was so frightfully bored
that he actually longed for Paris."
Edmund dips his fingers in his finger-glass with a slightly embarrassed
air.
"That is true," he admits. "Paris is the Manon Lescaut of European
capitals: worthless thing that she is, we can never be rid of her if
she has once bewitched us."
And as Therese prepares to rise from table he asks, "Do you object to a
cigarette, ladies, and are you fond of children? Then, Therese, let us
take coffee in the smoking-room, where I am sure the children are
waiting for me."