“It seems, mademoiselle, that my hotel is not large enough for charity.”
And he passed on, leaving us to laugh at his rather witty mot. In Paris everyone knows the Prince, for he is one of the central figures in Society. Below we encountered the Baronne de Nouilles, who with Madame Bornier was sharing the feminine literary honours of Paris at the moment. The Baronne’s poems were well known, especially “Il n’y a plus d’îles bienheureuses.” She greeted us merrily, for Sibyl was her especial favourite. She was still quite young, dark, slim, and distinguished-looking. In addition to much originality and charm in her manner of writing, she possessed an insight into, and a power to judge, human nature in its many varied aspects which had been pronounced by the critics to be remarkable. She was very graceful, with auburn hair and a face such as Burne-Jones loved to paint. Indeed, she had sat for the faces of several of that artist’s more recent pictures.
“What!” she cried, “you, too, find the crush too great? And I also. I am returning home. Come with me, both of you, and have a quiet cup of tea. I will explain to her ladyship;” and walking quickly across to where Sibyl’s mother was standing, she uttered a few words to the Ambassador’s wife. Then we all three entered her landau and drove to her house.
The Baronne was, as all Paris knows, in every way an artist, wealthy, chic, and philanthropic to a degree. Her house was, I found, a dream of exquisite taste.
When we entered, Sibyl turned to me, saying:
“These white carpets and delicate hangings make one tremble at the thought of dirty feet or smutty fingers!”
And they certainly did. The effects everywhere were highly artistic—more striking, I think, than I had ever seen in any private house. Her refined taste and rare turn of—mind were shown in every corner of that delightful house, so delicate and restful in every detail. The salon in which tea was served was all white—soft white velvet hangings, white carpet, white wood furniture, and a little gallery also in white. Along the dado-line, in white wood, were painted butterflies in pale opal shades, frail symbols of the flitting gaieties of life.
We had been chatting some little time, and the conversation between the Ambassador’s daughter and the poetess had turned upon frocks, as it so often does between women devoted to La mode. They were discussing the toilette of Madame de Yturbe, one of the prettiest women in Paris, and the tendency of late towards the Empire and Directoire periods in dress, when I asked a question to which I had often failed to get a satisfactory answer.
“Who is really the smartest—the Parisienne, or the American woman, in Paris?”
“Ah, m’sieur!” cried the merry little Baronne, holding up her hands, “the Americans run us so very close in the matter of dress nowadays that I really do not know. Indeed, many Americans are in my opinion more chic than the vraie Parisienne.”