 | How Frenchmen Make Love |  |
“How you do, Madame?”
Maurice Chevalier beamed upon me with professional cordiality.
“Bon jour, m'sieu,” said I.
An electrical change swept Chevalier's face. He gazed at me with delighted amazement.
“Ah-h-h-h-! Vous parlez francais?”
But my greeting had used up my entire French vocabulary. Now Chevalier took me for granted: I was not a stranger but a friend. A stream of voluble French poured from him as he drew me into his dressing-room. His smile was warm. Perhaps I might even be a French-woman. At all events I made an excellent listener; I can listen in all languages. I couldn't help myself, for by this time I was afraid to open my mouth. I didn't want to break the spell. I'd have given a lot at that very moment to be able to understand what Chevalier was saying. Everything in a foreign language sounds thrilling, sensational.
When finally Chevalier comprehended the limitations of my vocabulary, he regarded me with an element of regret and reproach. However, he was French, even if he does look like a big, blond, very He-ish Englishman, and he politely turned his disappointment into a bow.
| How Frenchmen Make Love | |