nging even as you
study her, with the manners and aspects of that other land known to him
as yet only by contradictory hearsay tales or books of travel, for the
most part unsatisfactory. Thoughts of a somewhat poetical cast, albeit
hackneyed and trite to our modern ideas, crossed his brain, in response
to some longing of which, perhaps, he himself was hardly conscious, a
desire in the depths of a heart fastidious rather than jaded, vacant
rather than seared.

"These are the wealthiest and most fashionable women and the greatest
ladies in Paris," he said to himself. "These are the great men of the
day, great orators and men of letters, great names and titles; artists
and men in power; and yet in it all it seems to me as if there were
nothing but petty intrigues and still-born loves, meaningless smiles
and causeless scorn, eyes lighted by no flame within, brain-power in
abundance running aimlessly to waste. All those pink-and-white faces are
here not so much for enjoyment, as to escape from dulness. None of the
emotion is genuine. If you ask for nothing but court feathers properly
adjusted, fresh gauzes and pretty toilettes and fragile, fair women, if
you desire simply to skim the surface of life, here is your world for
you. Be content with meaningless phrases and fascinating simpers, and do
not ask for real feeling. For my own part, I abhor the stale intrigues
which end in sub-prefectures and receiver-generals' places and
marriages; or, if love comes into the question, in stealthy compromises,
so ashamed are we of the mere semblance of passion. Not a single one of
all these eloquent faces tells you of a soul, a soul wholly absorbed by
one idea as by remorse. Regrets and misfortune go about shame-facedly
clad in jests. There is not one woman here whose resistance I should
care to overcome, not one who could drag you down to the pit. Where will
you find energy in Paris? A poniard here is a curious toy to hang from a
gilt nail, in a picturesque sheath to match. The women, the brains, and
hearts of Paris are all on a par. There is no passion left, because
we have no individuality. High birth and intellect and fortune are all
reduced to one level; we all have taken to the uniform black coat by way
of mourning for a dead France. There is no love between equals. Between
two lovers there should be differences to efface, wide gulfs to fill.
The charm of love fled from us in 1789. Our dulness and our humdrum
lives are the outcome