Keeping to Paris gossip, for want of any thing special in that way belonging to our own capital, we find this little half-incident chronicled in the French papers.
Ladies, it is known (or if not known may hence forth be known) traffic in the funds at the Paris Exchange, in a way that would utterly amaze our princesses of the salon. You do not indeed see them upon the marble floor of the stately Bourse itself, but at the hour of “the board,” you are very sure to see a great many luxurious-looking little carriages drawn up in the neighborhood, and a great many ladies, at that special hour, are particularly zealous in their admiration of the old paintings which the dealers behind the Exchange, offer “at a bargain.” Very quick-running footmen are also stirring, and report sales and offers to their mistresses with most commendable activity.
Among these outsiders, some Paris romancist has remarked lately a very elegantly-dressed lady, who, three times a week, drew up her phaeton opposite the doors of the Vaudeville Theatre (which all habitués will remember, is just opposite the Bourse). Chance passers imagined her to be some actress of the boards, and gazed at her accordingly. But it was observed that an “agent de change” made repeated visits to her little phaeton, and at the closing of the board our lady disappeared down the Rue Vivienne.
Upon a certain day—no matter when—the bystanders were startled by piercing shrieks issuing from the phaeton of “my lady,” and all ran, to prevent as they supposed, some terrible crime. Sympathy proved vain; and to the inquiries of the police
the “man of business” only made phlegmatic reply, that the funds had fallen some ten per cent., and “my lady” was ruined.
Three days after, and the phaeton was a voiture de remise in the Rue Lepelletier. The coachman had negotiated the sale, but all tidings of “my lady” were lost.
Guinot, to whom we have been indebted again and again, has twisted out of his brain (we can not doubt it) this little happening of Paris life, which, if not true, is yet as characteristic of France as a revolution.
Two funerals, he says, on a certain day wended their course toward the cemetery of Père la Chaise. One bier bore the body of a man; the other, the body of a woman. The day was a sour November day—with the half-mist and half-frostiness that sometimes ushers in the Paris winter. The mourners were few—as mourners at Paris are generally few. Arrived within the gates, one cortège took the path leading to the right; the other turned to the left. The ceremonies being over, a single mourner only remained at each tomb.