Ariciaʼs, where every night he ventures his five or six golden pistoles;[346] he never misses reading the Gazette de Hollande or the Mercure Galant;[347] he has read Bergerac,[348] Desmarets,[349] Lesclache,[350] Barbinʼs[351] stories, and some collections of poetry; he walks with the ladies on the Plaine or the Cours,[352] and is scrupulously punctual in his visits; he will do to-morrow precisely what he has done to-day and did yesterday; thus he lives, and thus he will die.
(13.) “I have seen this man somewhere,” youʼll say,[353] “and, though his face is familiar to me, I have forgotten where it was.” It is familiar to many other people, and, if possible, I will assist your memory. Was it on the Boulevard,[354] in a carriage, or in the large alley of the Tuileries, or else in the dress-circle at the theatre? Was it at church, at a ball, or at Rambouillet;[355] or, rather, can you tell me where you have not seen him, and where he is not to be met with? If some well-known criminal is going to be executed, or if there are any fireworks, he makes his appearance at a window at the town-hall; if some one enters the town in state, you see him in the reserved seats; if a carousel[356] is ridden, he enters and takes his place on some bench; if the king gives an audience to an ambassador, he sees the whole procession, is present at the reception, and thrusts himself in the ranks when it returns. His presence is as essential at the solemn renewal of the alliance between the Swiss Cantons as that of the Lord Chancellor or the Helvetian plenipotentiaries.[357] You see his face on the almanacks amongst the people or the bystanders;[358] if there is a public hunt going on or a Saint Hubert,[359] he will be present on horseback; they say to him that a camp is going to be pitched or that a review is going to be held, and off he will start for Houilles or Achères;[360] he is very fond of the army, the militia, and war, of which he has seen a good deal, even the taking of Fort Bernardi.[361] Chamlay knows something of marches, Jacquier of the commissariate, du Metz of the artillery,[362] but our gentleman is a looker-on, has grown old in the service of looking-on, and is a spectator by profession; he does not do anything that a man ought to do, and he does not know anything that a man ought to know; but he boasts that he has seen everything that was to be seen, and now does not regret to die. But what a loss will his death be for the whole town! Who will inform us, as he did, that the Cours is closed, and nobody is walking there, that the pond of Vincennes has been filled up and is now a raised moat, and that no carriage will any more be upset on that spot? Who will acquaint us when there is a concert, a choral service in church, or something wonderful to be seen at the fair? Who will let us know that Beaumavielle[363] died yesterday, and that Rochois[364] has got a cold and will not be able to sing for a week? Who will inform us that Scapin bears the “fleur de lis” on his arms, and who is very glad he does so? Who will pronounce, with the most boastful emphasis, the name of a mere citizenʼs wife, or who will be better provided with topical songs? Who will lend to the ladies the Annales Galantes and the Journal Amoureux?[365] Who will sing at table a whole dialogue of an opera, or the madness of “Roland”[366] in a ruelle, as well as he does?[367] To conclude, since there are in the city and elsewhere some very foolish people as well as some dull and idle people, who have nothing to do, who will so exactly suit every one of them as he did?
(14.) Theramenes[368] was rich and had some merit; some property was left him, and therefore he is now much wealthier and has a great deal more merit; all the women set to work to make him their gallant, and all the young girls to get him for a husband; he goes from house to house, to make the mothers believe that he is inclined to marry. As soon as he has taken his seat they withdraw, to leave full liberty to their daughters to be amiable and to Theramenes to declare his intentions. Here he is the rival of a magistrate;[369] there he throws into the shade a military man or a nobleman. The ladies could not covet more passionately any rosy-cheeked, gay, brisk, witty young fellow, nor could he be better received; they snatch him out of one anotherʼs hands, and can hardly find leisure to vouchsafe a smile to any other person who visits them at the same time. How many gallants is he going to defeat! how many good matches will be broken off on his account! Will he bestow his hand on the large number of heiresses who court him? He is not only the terror of husbands, but the dread of all these who wish to be so, and to whom marriage is the only resource for obtaining a sufficient sum to replace the money they paid for their official situations.[370] A man so happy and so wealthy[371] ought to be banished from a well-governed city, and the fair sex should be forbidden, under pain of being considered insane or degraded, to treat him better than if he were merely a person of merit.
(15.) The people in Paris commonly ape the court, but they do not always know how to imitate it; they by no means resemble it in those agreeable and flattering outward civilities with which some courtiers, and particularly the ladies, affably treat a man of merit, who possesses nothing but merit. Such ladies never inquire after that manʼs means or his ancestors; they find him at court, and that is sufficient for them; they give themselves no airs, they esteem him, and do not ask whether he came in a carriage or on foot, or whether he has a post, an estate, or followers; as they are satiated with pomp, splendour, and honour, they like to recreate themselves with philosophy or virtue. If a city lady hears the rattling of a carriage stopping at her door, she is anxious to be acquainted with any person who is in it, and to be polite to him, without at all knowing him; but from her window she has caught a glance of a set of fine horses, a good many liveries, is dazzled by the numerous rows of finely gilt nails,[372] and is very impatient to behold such a military man or a magistrate in her apartments. How well will he be received! Sheʼll never take her eyes off him. Nothing is lost upon her, and she has already given him credit for the double braces and springs of his carriage, which make it go easier, and she esteems him the more and loves him the better for them.
(16.) The infatuation of some city women in their wretched imitation of those at court is more offensive than the coarseness of the women of the people and the rusticity of country-women, since it is a mixture of both, and of affectation as well.
(17.) What a cunning contrivance to give during courtship valuable presents which cost nothing, and which after marriage have to be returned in kind![373]
(18.) It is sensible and praiseworthy in a man to spend on his nuptials one-third of his wifeʼs dowry; to begin with deliberately impoverishing himself by buying and collecting superfluous things; and already to take from his capital in order to pay Gaultier,[374] the cabinet-maker, and the milliner!
(19.) Truly it is a charming and judicious custom which, in defiance of modesty and decency, and through some kind of shamelessness, compels a newly-married bride to lie on her bed for show, and to render herself ridiculous for some days, by exposing her to the curiosity of a few men and women whom she may know, or who may be strangers to her, and who hasten from all quarters of the town to look on such a sight as long as it lasts.[375] There is nothing wanting to make this custom seem very absurd and incomprehensible, except to see it mentioned in print in some book of travels in Mingrelia.
(20.) What a painful habit and what a troublesome kind of obligation it must be for certain persons to be continually anxious of meeting one another, yet when they meet to have nothing but trifles to say to one another, and to communicate reciprocally things which were previously known to both and of no matter of importance to either; to enter a room merely to leave it again; to go out after dinner,[376] only to come home in the evening, highly satisfied with seeing in five hours three Swiss,[377] a woman they hardly knew, and another they scarcely liked. Whoever will rightly consider the value of time, and how irreparable its loss is, must lament bitterly such wretched trifling.[378]