I walked with her yesterday, amidst the elegant life of the Tuileries, at her return from an airing in the Bois de Boulogne. Unless you see a woman at all her fashionable hours, as well as in all her attitudes and passions, you know nothing of her beauty. She wore a little airy hat, à la Duchesse de la Vallière, the bird of Paradise waving over her stately brow;
“Suave a guisa va di un bel pavone,
Diritta sopra se, come una grua;”
with cock-feathers in weeping willow upon the crown.—I went in the evening to the ball with her—parole d’honneur; in her dress of satin, citron colour, trimmed in gauze volant, and a tunique of the same, with wreaths of roses; and in her hair a garland of forget-me-not, with gems assorted by Beaudran, and beautiful as the stars upon the azure firmament. In her morning walk, if she condescends ever to walk in the mornings, her mantle is of deep colours. She wears in half dress, a chapeau bibi; in negligé, her tresses are parted under a capote, and her thin gauze handkerchief zig-zag, is narrow by an inch;
—— “’neath which you see
Two crisp young ivory apples come and go,
Like waves that on the shore beat tenderly,
When a sweet air is ruffling to and fro.”
I send you a copy of her washerwoman’s list for the last week. I have seen one of the Queen Elizabeth’s somewhere, which began thus: Elizabeth, by the grace of God, Queen of England, Ireland and France, Defender of the Faith. Two petticoats, &c. This Frenchwoman’s is without preface as follows: One frock, à l’abri galant; one ditto, souris effrayé; two ditto, rassurées; one jupon inexorable; two ditto, implacables; with other articles too tedious to enumerate.
Apropos. The department of the wash-tub is important, and I may as well give you here its statistics. There is the Bourgeoise, who superintends, and under her in order, the savoneuse, the empeseuse and refineuse. A plain washerwoman has forty-two sous per day, and a starcher, clear starcher and ironer, three francs. There is scarcely any thing in Paris more neat and elegant than a Lingère. Each branch is brought, by a division of labour, to a nice perfection, which you will see in no other country; but, to find a single person, who can put a shirt through all its varieties, is nearly impossible. A gentleman’s account stands thus: Une chemise, trois sous; une veste, trois sous; une pantalon de drap, six sous; un collet, un sou; pair de bas, deux sous. And the washerwoman, when she brings you in your linen, will come in her court dress, and counting your shirts, she will inquire after your health, and as she retires she will have the “honour to salute you.” Madame Frederic is one of the notabilities of Paris, and no one who has a proper respect for clean linen ever speaks to her but with his hat in his hand; she has a reputation Européenne, but she refuses to wash any thing under a ministerial shirt—and not even that, if it be worn twice.
And now I will proceed to tell you who this elegant woman is, in whom, by this time, you must have taken some interest. She is a Parisian by birth and education, a married woman, and the greatest coquette and most capricious creature of all Paris; and yet all Paris—alas, more than all Paris, does nothing but run after her. As for me, I declare with Cicero, “malle me errare cum illa, quam aliis recte sapere.”
She has a brother too, as much admired by the ladies as she by the gentlemen, and is so exquisite in taste and dress, that many doubt whether he himself may not be of the softer gender. I wish I had time to describe to you his wardrobe also. His petite redingote of blue, and his white pantalons in contrast with his black vest and azure cravat, for the morning promenade; his graceful Polonaise trousers black, and vest white, for the field sports, and his——
---- But he is a proud and insolent fellow, and I hate him because he always has an eye upon his sister, and unless you ruin yourself altogether, in expenses for new coats, he won’t speak to you. In fine, to keep you no longer in suspense about this elegant couple —— they are called “The Fashions.” Enough of parables; to-morrow I will treat you to matters of fact.
To-morrow, May 8th.