Letters of Two Brides

THE SAME TO THE SAME

December 15th.

Yesterday, at two o'clock, I went to drive in the Champs-Elysees and

the Bois de Boulogne. It was one of those autumn days which we used to

find so beautiful on the banks of the Loire. So I have seen Paris at

last! The Place Louis XV. is certainly very fine, but the beauty is

that of man's handiwork.

I was dressed to perfection, pensive, with set face (though inwardly

much tempted to laugh), under a lovely hat, my arms crossed. Would you

believe it? Not a single smile was thrown at me, not one poor youth

was struck motionless as I passed, not a soul turned to look again;

and yet the carriage proceeded with a deliberation worthy of my pose.

No, I am wrong, there was one--a duke, and a charming man--who

suddenly reined in as we went by. The individual who thus saved

appearances for me was my father, and he proclaimed himself highly

gratified by what he saw. I met my mother also, who sent me a

butterfly kiss from the tips of her fingers. The worthy Griffith, who

fears no man, cast her glances hither and thither without

discrimination. In my judgment, a young woman should always know

exactly what her eye is resting on. I was mad with rage.

One man actually inspected my carriage without

noticing me. This flattering homage probably came from a

carriage-maker. I have been quite out in the reckoning of my forces.

Plainly, beauty, that rare gift which comes from heaven, is commoner

in Paris than I thought. I saw hats doffed with deference to simpering

fools; a purple face called forth murmurs of, "It is she!" My mother

received an immense amount of admiration. There is an answer to this

problem, and I mean to find it.

The men, my dear, seemed to me generally very ugly. The very few

exceptions are bad copies of us. Heaven knows what evil genius has

inspired their costume; it is amazingly inelegant compared with those

of former generations. It has no distinction, no beauty of color or

romance; it appeals neither to the senses, nor the mind, nor the eye,

and it must be very uncomfortable. It is meagre and stunted. The hat,

above all, struck me; it is a sort of truncated column, and does not

adapt itself in the least to the shape of the head; but I am told it

is easier to bring about a revolution than to invent a graceful hat.

Courage in Paris recoils before the thought of appearing in a round

felt; and for lack of one day's daring, men stick all their lives to

this ridiculous headpiece.