To this class, too, belonged certain obese women and emaciated men sitting, in couples, under the gay sunshades with which the beach was bright. The women were dressed always in gowns which, however ornate, were not quite new, not quite fresh, not quite clean; and the black coats of the men were a little shiny at the elbow, a little faded at the seams. But madame still took care to preserve such figure as unkind fate had left her; and monsieur still kept his moustaches waxed to a needle's point; and they sat there together, quite immovable, for hours at a time, staring drearily out toward the horizon, meditating, no doubt, over past glories, or arranging some coup by which their fortunes might be retrieved. Pride will slip from them gradually, as the years pass; madame will abandon her figure and monsieur his moustaches, and they will end their days miserably in some second- or third-rate pension--even, perhaps, the Maison Vauquer! The water was more interesting, being at once more natural and lively. With it there was no question of maintaining the equilibrium of its position; there was no need of air or artifice; there was none of that heartburning with which the latest Pontifical Princess smilingly swallows the insolence of the descendant (à la main gauche) of the Great Henri, happy to have been noticed, even though to be noticed meant inevitably to be snubbed. There was a freedom about the water, an honest vulgarity, a quality as of Rabelais, refreshingly in contrast with the hot-house manners and morals of the haute noblesse. Madame need not hesitate to cross her legs, if she found that attitude comfortable; monsieur could at once remove coat, waist-coat, collar, cuffs, if he found the weather warm. Families whose size testified to their bourgeois respectability, lolled in happy promiscuity upon the sands; the children constructed forts or canals, the women tore some neighbour's reputation to pieces, the men lay back lazily and smoked and kept an eye out for the bathers. There were always many scores of them, belonging principally to that strange and tragic half-world which hangs suspended, like Mahomet's coffin, between earth and heaven, or, at least, between mass and class, and which stretches out its tentacles and sucks nourishment from both. These with a regularity almost religious, spent an hour of every day, weather permitting, splashing in the gentle surf or posing on the beach in costumes more or less revealing, according to the contour of the wearer. The climax of the afternoon, the coup-de-théâtre which all awaited, was the appearance of Mlle. Paul, late of the Variétés. This was such a masterpiece in its way that it is worth pausing a moment to describe.