old M. Pigeonneau, who possessed a high appreciation of their charms, but who, owing to the absence of a common idiom, was deprived of the pleasures of intimacy. He knew no English, and Mrs. Ruck and her daughter had, as it seemed, an incurable mistrust of the beautiful tongue which, as the old man endeavoured to impress upon them, was pre-eminently the language of conversation.
"They have a tournure de princesse—a distinction supreme," he said to me. "One is surprised to find them in a little pension, at seven francs a day."
"Oh, they don't come for economy," I answered. "They must be rich."
"They don't come for my beaux yeux—for mine," said M. Pigeonneau, sadly. "Perhaps it's for yours, young man. Je vous recommande la mère."
I reflected a moment. "They came on account of Mr. Ruck—because at hotels he's so restless."
M. Pigeonneau gave me a knowing nod. "Of course he is, with such a wife as that!—a femme superbe. Madame Ruck is preserved in perfection—a miraculous fraîcheur. I like those large, fair, quiet women; they are often, dans l'intimité, the
