VI

"Alas! it is true," said Joseph Bridau. "In our day we cannot show

those beautiful flowers of womanhood which graced the golden ages of

the French Monarchy. The great lady's fan is broken. A woman has

nothing now to blush for; she need not slander or whisper, hide her

face or reveal it. A fan is of no use now but for fanning herself.

When once a thing is no more than what it is, it is too useful to be a

form of luxury."

"Everything in France has aided and abetted the 'perfect lady,' " said

Daniel d'Arthez. "The aristocracy has acknowledged her by retreating

to the recesses of its landed estates, where it has hidden itself to

die--emigrating inland before the march of ideas, as of old to foreign

lands before that of the masses. The women who could have founded

European /salons/, could have guided opinion and turned it inside out

like a glove, could have ruled the world by ruling the men of art or

of intellect who ought to have ruled it, have committed the blunder of

abandoning their ground; they were ashamed of having to fight against

the citizen class drunk with power, and rushing out on to the stage of

the world, there to be cut to pieces perhaps by the barbarians who are

at its heels. Hence, where the middle class insist on seeing

princesses, these are really only ladylike young women. In these days

princes can find no great ladies whom they may compromise; they cannot

even confer honor on a woman taken up at random. The Duc de Bourbon

was the last prince to avail himself of this privilege."

"And God alone knows how dearly he paid for it," said Lord Dudley.

"Nowadays princes have lady-like wives, obliged to share their opera-

box with other ladies; royal favor could not raise them higher by a

hair's breadth; they glide unremarkable between the waters of the

citizen class and those of the nobility--not altogether noble nor

altogether /bourgeoises/," said the Marquise de Rochegude acridly.

"The press has fallen heir to the Woman," exclaimed Rastignac. "She no

longer has the quality of a spoken /feuilleton/--delightful calumnies

graced by elegant language. We read /feuilletons/ written in a dialect

which changes every three years, society papers about as mirthful as

an undertaker's mute, and as light as the lead of their type. French

conversation is carried on from one end of the country to the other in

a revolutionary jargon, through long columns of type printed in old

mansions where a press groans in the place where formerly elegant

company used to meet."

"The knell of the highest society is tolling," said a Russian Prince.

"Do you hear it? And the first stroke is your modern word /lady/."

"You are right, Prince," said de Marsay. "The 'perfect lady,' issuing

from the ranks of the nobility, or sprouting from the citizen class,

and the product of every soil, even of the provinces is the expression

of these times, a last remaining embodiment of good taste, grace, wit,

and distinction, all combined, but dwarfed. We shall see no more great

ladies in France, but there will be 'ladies' for a long time, elected

by public opinion to form an upper chamber of women, and who will be

among the fair sex what a 'gentleman' is in England."

"And that they call progress!" exclaimed Mademoiselle des Touches. "I

should like to know where the progress lies?"

"Why, in this," said Madame de Nucingen. "Formerly a woman might have

the voice of a fish-seller, the walk of a grenadier, the face of an

impudent courtesan, her hair too high on her forehead, a large foot, a

thick hand--she was a great lady in spite of it all; but in these

days, even if she were a Montmorency--if a Montmorency would ever be

such a creature--she would not be a lady."

"But what do you mean by a 'perfect lady'?" asked Count Adam Laginski.

"She is a modern product, a deplorable triumph of the elective system

as applied to the fair sex," said the Minister. "Every revolution has

a word of its own which epitomizes and depicts it."

"You are right," said the Russian, who had come to make a literary

reputation in Paris. "The explanation of certain words added from time

to time to your beautiful language would make a magnificent history.

/Organize/, for instance, is the word of the Empire, and sums up

Napoleon completely."

"But all that does not explain what is meant by a lady!" the young

Pole exclaimed, with some impatience.

"Well, I will tell you," said Emile Blondet to Count Adam. "One fine

morning you go for a saunter in Paris. It is past two, but five has

not yet struck. You see a woman coming towards you; your first glance

at her is like the preface to a good book, it leads you to expect a

world of elegance and refinement. Like a botanist over hill and dale

in his pursuit of plants, among the vulgarities of Paris life you have

at last found a rare flower. This woman is attended by two very

distinguished-looking men, of whom one, at any rate, wears an order;

or else a servant out of livery follows her at a distance of ten

yards. She displays no gaudy colors, no open-worked stockings, no

over-elaborate waist-buckle, no embroidered frills to her drawers

fussing round her ankles. You will see that she is shod with prunella

shoes, with sandals crossed over extremely fine cotton stockings, or

plain gray silk stockings; or perhaps she wears boots of the most

exquisite simplicity. You notice that her gown is made of a neat and

inexpensive material, but made in a way that surprises more than one

woman of the middle class; it is almost always a long pelisse, with

bows to fasten it, and neatly bound with fine cord or an imperceptible

braid. The Unknown has a way of her own in wrapping herself in her

shawl or mantilla; she knows how to draw it round her from her hips to

her neck, outlining a carapace, as it were, which would make an

ordinary woman look like a turtle, but which in her sets off the most

beautiful forms while concealing them. How does she do it? This secret

she keeps, though unguarded by any patent.

"As she walks she gives herself a little concentric and harmonious

twist, which makes her supple or dangerous slenderness writhe under

the stuff, as a snake does under the green gauze of trembling grass.

Is it to an angel or a devil that she owes the graceful undulation

which plays under her long black silk cape, stirs its lace frill,

sheds an airy balm, and what I should like to call the breeze of a

Parisienne? You may recognize over her arms, round her waist, about

her throat, a science of drapery recalling the antique Mnemosyne.

"Oh! how thoroughly she understands the /cut/ of her gait--forgive the

expression. Study the way she puts her foot forward moulding her skirt

with such a decent preciseness that the passer-by is filled with

admiration, mingled with desire, but subdued by deep respect. When an

Englishwoman attempts this step, she looks like a grenadier marching

forward to attack a redoubt. The women of Paris have a genius for

walking. The municipality really owed them asphalt footwalks.

"Our Unknown jostles no one. If she wants to pass, she waits with

proud humility till some one makes way. The distinction peculiar to a

well-bred woman betrays itself, especially in the way she holds her

shawl or cloak crossed over her bosom. Even as she walks she has a

little air of serene dignity, like Raphael's Madonnas in their frames.

Her aspect, at once quiet and disdainful, makes the most insolent

dandy step aside for her.

"Her bonnet, remarkable for its simplicity, is trimmed with crisp

ribbons; there may be flowers in it, but the cleverest of such women

wear only bows. Feathers demand a carriage; flowers are too showy.

Beneath it you see the fresh unworn face of a woman who, without

conceit, is sure of herself; who looks at nothing, and sees

everything; whose vanity, satiated by being constantly gratified,

stamps her face with an indifference which piques your curiosity. She

knows that she is looked at, she knows that everybody, even women,

turn round to see her again. And she threads her way through Paris

like a gossamer, spotless and pure.

"This delightful species affects the hottest latitudes, the cleanest

Longitudes of Paris; you will meet her between the 10th and 110th

Arcade of the Rue de Rivoli; along the line of the Boulevards from the

equator of the Passage des Panoramas, where the products of India

flourish, where the warmest creations of industry are displayed, to

the Cape of the Madeleine; in the least muddy districts of the citizen

quarters, between No. 30 and No. 130 of the Rue du Faubourg Saint-

Honore. During the winter, she haunts the terrace of the Feuillants,

but not the asphalt pavement that lies parallel. According to the

weather, she may be seen flying in the Avenue of the Champs-Elysees,

which is bounded on the east by the Place Louis XV., on the west by

the Avenue de Marigny, to the south by the road, to the north by the

gardens of the Faubourg Saint-Honore. Never is this pretty variety of

woman to be seen in the hyperborean regions of the Rue Saint-Denis,

never in the Kamtschatka of miry, narrow, commercial streets, never

anywhere in bad weather. These flowers of Paris, blooming only in

Oriental weather, perfume the highways; and after five o'clock fold up

like morning-glory flowers. The women you will see later, looking a

little like them, are would-be ladies; while the fair Unknown, your

Beatrice of a day, is a 'perfect lady.'

"It is not very easy for a foreigner, my dear Count, to recognize the

differences by which the observer /emeritus/ distinguishes them--women

are such consummate actresses; but they are glaring in the eyes of

Parisians: hooks ill fastened, strings showing loops of rusty-white

tape through a gaping slit in the back, rubbed shoe-leather, ironed

bonnet-strings, an over-full skirt, an over-tight waist. You will see

a certain effort in the intentional droop of the eyelid. There is

something conventional in the attitude.