My aunt Gretchen van Cloth is in Paris!
Well, why do you assume your facetious tone on reading that? I know you
and can guess your thoughts.
After all, Barbassou is a pasha, is it still necessary to remind you of
that?
Well, the other day my uncle informed me that he would take me home to
dine with him. I repaired to the boulevard at the appointed hour and we
started in his brougham for Passy. On the way he told me what it was
necessary I should know. We reached a rather nice looking house in the
Rue Raynouard, from which you can see the boats floating down the
Seine. There is a railing and a little garden in front. On hearing our
footsteps, a young lady whom I at once recognised, from the
recollections of my childhood, hurried to the door.
"Kiss your aunt," my uncle said to me: and I did as I was told.
We then entered a modest little drawing-room, the commonplace aspect of
which, reminding one of furnished apartments, was improved by its
general neatness and by a few bunches of flowers displayed in sundry odd
vases. Three youngsters, the smallest of whom was between three and four
years old, were eating bread and butter there. My uncle saluted each of
them with a hurried kiss, and then they ran off to their nurse.
My aunt Gretchen is just reaching her thirty-fourth birthday. She
confesses to her age. If she did not come from Amsterdam she ought to
have been born there. She has blossomed like a flower among the tulips,
and she looks like a Rubens, in that painter's more sober style, as in
the portrait of the Friesland woman, with the prim pink and white flesh
of the healthful natures of the North. You realise that good blood flows
quietly and temperately beneath the pleasantly plump charms of this
worthy Dutchwoman, who claims only her due, but is desirous of getting
it. And she does get it. She has luxuriant light chestnut hair, and a
very attractive face with the smiling, placid, and even somewhat simple
expression of a good housewife, who is as expert in bringing up her
children as in making pastry and pineapple jam. Being of a gay and
amiable disposition, she greeted her husband with the ordinary, hearty
affection of a woman who has never been a widow. After bringing him his
foxskin cap she established him in a comfortable arm-chair, and then
mixed his absinthe for him. I guessed that the captain was returning to
old habits, with the dignified composure which he displays in
everything.