He likes to sit at their feet, for the mere pleasure of being there; he likes to meet their eye, merely to catch a glimpse of their veiled and fleeting thoughts; he likes to listen to their voice, solely because it is the voice of woman.
It is by them, and for them, that the Frenchman has learnt to talk, and to display the ready wit which distinguishes him.
To talk! What is it? It is the art of never seeming wearisome; of knowing how to invest every trifle with interest, to charm no matter what be the subject, to fascinate with absolutely nothing.
How can one describe the airy butterfly touch upon things by supple words, the running fire of wit, the dainty flitting of ideas, which should all go to compose talk?
The Frenchman is the only being in the world who has this subtle spirit of wit, and he alone thoroughly enjoys and comprehends it.
His wit is a mere flash and yet it dwells; now the current joke, now the wit, which illumines the national literature.
That which is truly innate, is wit in the largest sense of the word, that vast breath of irony or gaiety, which has animated the nation from the moment it could think or speak: it is the pungent raciness of Montaigne and Rabelais, the irony of Voltaire, of Beaumarchais, of Saint-Simon, and the inextinguishable laughter of Molière.
The brilliant sally, the neat epigram, is the small-change of this wit. And nevertheless, it is yet an aspect of it, a characteristic peculiarity of the national intelligence. It is one of its keenest charms. It is this that makes the sceptical gaiety of Paris life, the careless cheerfulness of their manners and customs. It is part and parcel of the social amenity.
Formerly, these pleasant jests were made in verse, now-a-days they appear in prose. They are called, according to their date, epigrams, _bons mots,_ traits, hits, _gauloiseries._ They fly through town and drawing-room, they spring up everywhere, on the boulevard as well as Montmartre. And those of Montmartre are often just as good as those of the boulevard, they are printed in the papers; from one end of France to the other, they excite laughter. For, at least, the French know how to laugh.
Why should one good thing more than another, the unexpected, quaint, juxtaposition of two terms, two ideas or even two sounds; a ridiculous pun, some unexpected cock-and-bull story, open the floodgates of our gaiety, causing explosions of mirth, fit to blow up all Paris and the provinces like a mine?