Seeing that the word flirtation seems to have been definitely received into the French vocabulary, it is natural to suppose that our language contained no equivalent for it, or that the thing itself never existed in France.

Flirtation is, in fact, an essentially English pastime. No one flirts in France: we are more serious than that in love affairs.

Some etymologists have thought that the verb to flirt was formed from fleurette in the expression conter fleurette; but the best authorities agree in thinking that it took its origin from fleardian, an Anglo-Saxon word which means to trifle; and thus it seems possible that it may have some connection with the verb fleureter, which, in old French, signified “to say little nothings,” whence plaisanter, badiner.

However this may be, let us leave to savants the task of deciding the matter, while we concern ourselves about the thing itself. What, then, is flirtation?

Flirtation is a very innocent little pastime. I have read in the confession albums of young ladies of good society, “What is your favourite occupation? Flirting.” The answer is not in exquisite taste, even from the English point of view, I admit; but no one would think of taking it amiss ... all the more so, I should add, because these confessions are not meant to be taken very seriously.

Young girls who at a ball had made themselves specially agreeable to certain of their partners, and succeeded in drawing a few compliments from them, might say, “We had such flirtation.”

To flirt, then, is to make a young fellow believe that “on l’a remarquÉ, distinguÉ,” as the Grande Duchesse de Gerolstein says; it is to encourage him by sweet smiles and tender wiles, to quit his reserve and carry his gallantry almost so far as to declare himself. This kind of thing would be very dangerous with a young Frenchman; it leads to no bad consequences with the young Englishman, for flirtation is “attention without intention,” as some one—I forget whom—has very aptly put it; and an Englishman is able to pay a lady attentions without harbouring any intentions. I compliment him upon it.

A woman who flirted would pass in France for giddy, even fast: she knows her countrymen well, and is aware, when she coquettes with them, what she is exposing herself to. A young girl would never even think of it. But, in England, men are not so inflammable, and in flirting, a woman does not play with fire. Witness the following little scene, which gave me a quarter of an hour’s diversion, at a conversazione given by one of the great learned societies of London.

A young girl, lovely as an Englishwoman knows how to be lovely, when she sets about it, stood in the corner of one of the rooms talking with a young fellow of eighteen or twenty.

You should have seen with what a mischievous delight this little angel, or rather this little demon, tortured the young booby, who appeared to me not to know what to do with himself, or which way to look, to escape the sight of a lovely and freely displayed corsage, that rose and fell, a few inches from his nose. “Poor dear child!” I thought to myself, “how oppressed you appear to be!” She seemed to be doing her utmost to sigh her life away; and what amused me most, was that, when the poor fellow appeared to have taken the firm resolution not to be tempted, his pretty torturer stopped her chatter, and set to work to fasten, with many careful and delicate touches, a rose that threatened, at one moment to escape, at the next to be swallowed in the heavy sea.

This little performance certainly lasted a quarter of an hour, and really I pitied from the bottom of my heart this poor Tantalus—if one may call Tantalus a young innocent who did not attempt to get nearer—when, to my great satisfaction, I saw him beat a retreat. I felt relieved. So did the poor fellow, I am sure.

A young Frenchman would soon have put an end to such a game by taking some liberty that the young girl, after all, would have only too richly deserved.

Sweethearting is a very different thing: we come now to love-making taken au sÉrieux. Sweethearts are two young people who have confessed their love to each other and have become mutually affianced, with or without the consent of their parents. This English word has an old-fashioned flavour about it. It corresponds very much to our bon ami and bonne amie. In speaking of the intended husband of a lady of good society, you would now rather use the word lover.

Sweethearting could hardly exist in France, where the most firmly betrothed lovers scarcely ever have a chance of renewing their vows of love, except in the presence of a future mother-in-law. In England, sweethearting means to make love openly; to take one’s choice about, to friends’ houses, to concerts, to the theatre, to parties, for sentimental walks more or less solitary; to be allowed a thousand charming little liberties; it means, in a word, to play the comedy of love. Of course, accidents will happen, it is inevitable: carried away by the success of the play, the best actors may forget themselves. But it is far from being the rule: it is even a very rare exception, especially in the educated classes.

It is a curious spectacle, in a country where reserve, prudery, and propriety are carried to a point of uncomfortableness, to observe the couples of lovers walking about in the evening, holding each other by the hand, by the waist, around the neck, and, in rather deserted streets, forming regular processions. I am not speaking of the better classes, of course; but still I speak of the lower middle class—of clerks, shopmen, and shopgirls, very well dressed, and for the most part very respectable. These couples go “sober, sober,” like the “poor man” in the nursery rhyme, and, with their eyes bent languishingly on each other, appear to find very little to say with their lips. When you pass and look at them, they seem to say to you: “You have been through it yourself, old fellow, haven’t you? You know all about it: there’s no need to mind you.”

The seats in the parks and public promenades are occupied all the evening long by such couples. These seats are made to hold three persons, but, with a little management, they will accommodate six. The occupants are there by the hour together, each couple taking no notice of the others, but clasped in a silent embrace, motionless and rapturous. I have always admired these stoical young Englishmen who can thus undergo, for hours, this voluptuous treatment without any inconvenience.

One evening, in the month of March of last year, I crossed Hyde Park to get to the Marble Arch from Piccadilly. As I saw those couples reposing at their ease on the grass, and not attempting to disturb themselves for such a trifle as a man passing, I thought to myself, “O free England! to what lengths, after all, will thy love of liberty carry thee!”

As I was waiting at the Arch for my omnibus, a fine, good-humoured looking policeman was pacing up and down. I went up to him, and began by asking him if there would soon be a Bayswater omnibus passing. Seeing him disposed to be chatty, I said to him, “They seem to make themselves at home in the park, those lovers! They don’t budge for anybody.”

“No, sir; no, not they,” he replied naÏvely; “no fear!” OÙ il y a de la gÊne il n’y a pas de plaisir.

The policeman was evidently there at the entrance of the park to protect the sweethearts, and prevent anybody from disturbing them. I had always wondered why policemen were stationed outside the London parks, and never entered them after dusk. I understand at last: one does not take in everything at a glance.