Of the honest tailor, I can indeed recall
nothing--so many tailors have since then crossed my path--save perhaps
a vision, as in a luminous mist, of a thoughtful brow and a large
mustache. The coat indeed is there, before my eyes. Its image after
twenty years still remains indelibly graven on my memory, as on
imperishable brass. What a collar, my young friends! What lapels! And,
above all, what skirts, shaped as the slimmest tail of the swallow! My
brother, a man of experience, had said: "One must have a dress coat if
one wishes to make one's way in the world." And the dear fellow
counted much upon this piece of frippery for the advancement of my
fame and fortune....

[Footnote 11: From "Thirty Years of Paris." Translated by Laura
Ensor.]

One day some one proposed to get me an invitation to Augustine
Brohan's soirees. Who? some one. Some one, egad! You know him already:
that eternal some one, who is like every one else, that amiable
institution of Providence, who, of no personal value in himself and a
mere acquaintance in the house he frequents, yet goes everywhere,
introduces you everywhere, is the friend of a day, of an hour, of
whose name even you are ignorant, that essentially Parisian type.

You may imagine with what enthusiasm I accepted the proposal. To be
invited to Augustine's house! Augustine, the famous actress,
Augustine, the laughing representative of Moliere's comic muse,
softened somewhat by the more modern poetic smile of Musset's
genius--for while she acted the waiting maids at the Theatre Francais,
Musset had written his comedy "Louison" at her house; Augustine
Brohan, in short, in whom all Paris delighted, vaunting her wit,
quoting her repartees; and who might already be said to have adorned
herself with that swallow's plume, unsullied yet by ink, but already
well sharpened, with which she was hereafter to sign those charming
"Lettres de Suzanne!"

"Lucky dog!" said my brother, helping me on with the coat; "your
fortune is made."

Nine o'clock was striking as I sallied forth.

At that time Augustine Brohan was living in the Rue Lord Byron, at the
top of the Champs Elysees, in one of those pretty coquettish little
houses which seem to ignorant provincials the realization of the
poetical dreams which they weave for themselves from the pages of the
novelist. A railing, a tiny garden, four steps covered by an awning,
an entrance hall filled with flowers, and then, opening immediately
from it, t