It was grand monde tinctured with literature—that was the social blend. We went to a delightfully old-fashioned house, one of the few left, and saluted a delightfully old-fashioned person—a Marquise, I believe, to complete the harmony of association—who looked like an original of some Moreau le Jeune. Her hair was silver—perfect Louis XV., without the powder puff; she had quick piercing eyes, black amid all this whiteness, and there was a suspicion of hoop in her skirts. She was the queen of a little court, and very condescending. The courtiers acted up to their part by elegant flatteries. They told little stories at her to exemplify her wit and spirit, and capped quotations from her last book, in stage asides. The book was just out, and we had learned it by heart that morning, as the inevitable topic of the small hours. It was a dainty article de Paris; all her ripe experiences of life distilled in maxim, after the manner of M. de la Rochefoucauld. Every other maxim was about love; they are sometimes too young, but never too old for that vital theme. There was a certain disinterested grandeur in the attitude of the Marquise. ‘I too have played the grand game,’ she seemed to say, ‘and now I umpire the match.’
‘“One of the consolations of old age for a woman,” said a quoting courtier to his neighbours, “is to dare follow her inclinations without peril of love, and show herself a devoted friend, without encouraging dangerous hopes.” Is it possible to speak with more finesse?’
‘I overheard you,’ said the Marquise gaily, ‘but you weaken the compliment by talking so loud. I am not old enough to be deaf.’
‘For my part,’ said the other, ‘I want to know how the Marquise found you all out so well, vous autres. Listen to this: “Habit has as much power over the nature of men as the unknown over the mind of women.” That is my pearl from the chaplet. It is so true.’
‘And so finely said!’
‘Ah, all you care about is the workmanship,’ said our hostess. ‘But I tell you, I have lived all that.’
A General came by, with a charming woman on his arm. He was, in some sort, a counterpart of the elderly muse—silvery hair, a raven brow, and sparkling eyes.
‘The butcher of the Commune,’ whispered A. to me. ‘His column made the fewest prisoners.’
‘They are beginning to be troublesome again, General,’ I heard the lady say. ‘That dreadful meeting yesterday! Did you see the account?’
‘We are ready for them, Madame; and with the old argument, mitraille; I assure you they only pretend to like it: it hurts.’