This, I may tell you, is one of the few absolutely truthful and
dependable statements encountered by the tourist in the French
capital. Invariably English is spoken here. It is spoken here
during all the hours of the day and until far Into the dusk of the
evening; spoken loudly, clearly, distinctly, hopefully, hopelessly,
stridently, hoarsely, despondently, despairingly and finally
profanely by Americans who are trying to make somebody round the
place understand what they are driving at.
The other inscription is carved, painted or printed on all public
buildings, on most monuments, and on many private establishments
as well. It is the motto of the French Republic, reading as follows:
Liberality! Economy! Frugality!
[Footnote: Free translation.]
The first word of this - the Liberality part - is applicable to the
foreigner and is aimed directly at him as a prayer, an injunction
and a command; while the rest of it - the Economy and the Frugality
- is competently attended to by the Parisians themselves. The
foreigner has only to be sufficiently liberal and he is assured
of a flattering reception wheresoever his straying footsteps may
carry him, whether in Paris or in the provinces; but wheresoever
those feet of his do carry him he will find a people distinguished
by a frugality and inspired by an economy of the frugalest and
most economical character conceivable. In the streets of the
metropolis he is expected, when going anywhere, to hail the
fast-flitting taxicab [Footnote: Stops on signal only - and sometimes
not then.], though the residents patronize the public bus. Indeed,
the distinction is made clear to his understanding from the moment
he passes the first outlying fortress at the national frontier
[Footnote: Flag station.] - since, for the looks of things if for
no better reason, he must travel first-class on the de-luxe trains
[Footnote: Diner taken off when you are about half through eating.],
whereas the Frenchmen pack themselves tightly but frugally into the
second-class and the third-class compartments.
Before I went to France I knew Saint Denis was the patron saint
of the French; but I did not know why until I heard the legend
connected with his death. When the executioner on the hill at
Montmartre cut off his head the good saint picked it up and strolled
across the fields with it tucked under his arm - so runs the tale.
His head, in that shape, was no longer of any particular value
to him, but your true Parisian is of a saving disposition. And
so the Paris population have worshiped Saint Denis ever since.
Both as a saint and as a citizen he filled the bill. He would not
throw anything away, whether he needed it or not.
Paris - not the Paris of the art lover, nor the Paris of the lover
of history, nor yet again the Paris of the worth-while Parisians
- but the Paris which the casual male visitor samples, is the most
overrated thing on earth, I reckon - except alligator-pear salad
- and the most costly.
