: "Fashion helped me in my disguise, for
men were wearing long, square frock-coats styled a _la proprietaire_.
They came down to the heels, and fitted the figure so little that my
brother, when putting his on, said to me one day at Nohant: 'It is a
nice cut, isn't it? The tailor takes his measures from a sentry-box, and
the coat then fits a whole regiment.' I had 'a sentry-box coat' made, of
rough grey cloth, with trousers and waistcoat to match. With a grey
hat and a huge cravat of woollen material, I looked exactly like a
first-year student. . . ."

Dressed in this style, she explored the streets, museums, cathedrals,
libraries, painters' studios, clubs and theatres. She heard Frederick
Lemaitre one day, and the next day Malibran. One evening it was one of
Dumas' pieces, and the next night _Moise_ at the Opera. She took her
meals at a little restaurant, and she lived in an attic. She was not
even sure of being able to pay her tailor, so she had all the joys
possible. "Ah, how delightful, to live an artist's life! Our device is
liberty!" she wrote.(6) She lived in a perpetual state of delight,
and, in February, wrote to her son Maurice as follows: "Every one is at
loggerheads, we are crushed to death in the streets, the churches are
being destroyed, and we hear the drum being beaten all night."(7) In
March she wrote to Charles Duvernet: "Do you know that fine things are
happening here? It really is amusing to see. We are living just as gaily
among bayonets and riots as if everything were at peace. All this amuses
me."(8)

(6) _Correspondance_: To Boucoiran, March 4, 1831.

(7) _Ibid_. To Maurice Dudevant, February 15, 1831.

(8) _Ibid_. To Charles Duvernet, March 6, 1831.

She was amused at everything and she enjoyed everything. With her keen
sensitiveness, she revelled in the charm of Paris, and she thoroughly
appreciated its scenery.

"Paris," she wrote, "with its vaporous evenings, its pink clouds above
the roofs, and the beautiful willows of such a delicate green around
the bronze statue of our old Henry, and then, too, the dear little
slate-coloured pigeons that make their nests in the old masks of the
Pont Neuf . . ."(9)

(9) Unpublished letters of Dr. Emile Regnault.

She loved the Paris sky, so strange-looking, so rich in colouring, so
variable.(10)

(10) _Ibid_.

She became unjust with regard to Berry. "As for that part of the world
which I used to love so dearly and wher