The American in Paris; vol. 2 of 2

by John Sanderson

May, 1836.

I have just had yours of the 4th of April, and have seen two of Miss Kitty’s, very acid. Doctor —— let one of them fall in the Seine from the Pont Neuf, and it made lemonade to St. Cloud. Poor Miss Kitty! I wish she had such a husband as her mother, who, instead of going to carnivals, and masquerades, and receptions, and such places, and giving uneasiness to his wife, stays at home and looks cross all the evening, by the fire-side.—I walked out this morning in one of these domestic fits, and kicked a lady’s lap-dog in the Tuileries, and was called to account for it by a pair of mustachios like the horns of a centipede, and I got off only by making an apology to the lady and the puppy—(smiling to her and patting the dog a little) which I would not have done under the administration of James Madison.

This happened just by the statue of Lucretia, who used to stay at home also in the same way of an evening in spinning; it would have been, perhaps, better for both of us to have mixed a little more in the amusements of the town. The fact is, it puzzles the best of us to know how to behave ourselves. One may fall, like the Roman lady into difficulties at home, and another into temptations abroad. But alas, poor Kitty!—Beware of telling her what I am going to relate to you. You know what a thing jealousy is. Doctor —— has fallen in love with a French woman. To be sure, she is one of the most glorious beauties of Paris, admired by the very first nobility—by the Duke of Orleans, by the Duke of Nemours, and by the Duke of I don’t know what else; and if the truth was known, I believe the king himself is fond of her. If you had only seen her last night at her harp!—a fine woman is dangerous in any shape whatever; but when she adds music to her charms—one surrenders at discretion.

If you had heard her wild notes, as they thrilled upon the wires, and as her fluttering voice softened and expired upon the listening ear, you would not yourself have blamed a little infidelity towards one’s wife, especially all the way to Paris. I hate to keep you in pain, so I will tell you at once her name.—What makes it a little more unhappy perhaps is, that she is a lady of rather a doubtful reputation; and belongs at present to the “Opera Comique:” In fine, if you will absolutely know, it was the “Dame Blanche.”

And now that I am in the chapter of accidents, I may as well tell you that your old acquaintance, D. D—, on Saturday night, was found dead—(say nothing of this to his sister, she will be so afflicted)—he was found dead drunk in the Place du Carrousel; and on Monday he got up at six in the morning, and went deliberately into a tippling-shop in the neighbourhood, and ran himself through the body—(being mad at his father for not sending him money)—with a pint of rum.

I have now prepared you for a story of a much more serious import—a story which concerns myself. I would not tell it to you but in obedience to my invariable rule of concealing nothing from you. What a place this Paris is! No virtue is under shelter from its temptations. Solomon had a great deal more wisdom than I can pretend to, and he was seduced away by foreigners, who, I dare say, were not half so tempting as these French.

I was looking out a few days ago to see what kind of weather it was;—there was not a cloud in the firmament; but there was a very beautiful woman standing in a gallery almost opposite; so I left off looking at the heavens just to look at this woman a little, never supposing any harm would come of it. But nothing is so dangerous as this cross-the-street kind of acquaintance. The silent conversation of looks, so much more expressive than words; the mysterious conjectures about what each other’s thoughts may be, and above all, the obstacle of the intervening space—you know what amorous things obstacles are.

If it had not been the wall with the crack in it at Babylon, I dare say Pyramus and Thisbe would not have cared for each other a French sou.—She kept looking and looking (I mean the woman in the gallery) and now and then I looked back at her. And if I have been looking into the looking-glass, more than usual, and if the tailor has just brought me home an entire new suit, which I could not well afford, it is all owing to her. I wish you could have seen the elegant creature this morning, as I did, at her toilette; as she stood like our first mother combing down to her ankles (the prettiest pair but one you ever saw) her long hair, which hung around her as a misty cloud about the full moon.

The little shoe soon embraced her foot and the garter her knee; the maid laced up her corsets, giving graceful folds to her jupe, gracility to her waist, and relief to her tournure; and incased her fair form in a frock, “soft as the dove’s down and as white;”—her glossy tresses having already received their fittest harmony from her nimble and tapering fingers.

And now she sat at her mirror, and perused her elegant features; she looked joyful, then sad, then cruel, then tender, and brought out each sentiment into its most eloquent and dangerous expression; she studied a frown and then put on the magic of a smile.—The fine rhetoric of the bosom came next—the rock upon which taste so often is wrecked. Here she meditated and pondered much and inquired of the Graces, how far she might adventure—“how much to the curious eye disclose, how much to fancy leave.”