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Show OUR EUROPEAN LETTER. (From our regular correspondent.) The supreme bon ton at Paris, as elsewhere, and at Paris more than elsewhere, consists in a small number of privileged persons doing what the vulgar cannot do-amusing themselves when the masses are working, waking when they are sleeping, sleeping when they are waking, and going out for a ride when they are in the workshop ore at the counter. This is why the cream of fashion do not go to the theatre on Sunday, and rarely shows itself at the Bois oftener than six days out of seven. Vanity is one of the most deeply rooted qualities of human nature, and nothing can conquer this desire to be distinguished from the base crowd. It is in vain that you hear people talk about equality; the way that most people, and amongst those the French, understand equality is that they are equals of those that are above them. You, a modest shopkeeper, a retired businessman or a well to do banker, you are of course the equal of Lord Kickemstiff or of the Comte de Baccarat, but you of course could not condescend to take of your hat to the man who blacks your boots or the groom who drives your horses. With all their democratic instincts, the French are essentially a proud people and in Modern France the bourgeoise has taken the place of the old nobility the defects of which it has neglected. I do not say that civilized man is in the wrong, and I am no believer in absolute equality. I take Parisian society as it is, brilliant and thoughtless, jealous of its titles and ??, proud of its fortune but still charitable at bottom and full of humanity. Here we are then in te Bois. It is, let us suppose, any time between four and six; it is a brilliantly fine day, and the artificial and natural landscape is the finest that could be found. We have taken up our station in the promenade on one side of the lake, the famous "tour du lac" as it is called, because no one ever makes the tour. There is an interminable double line of carriages, and all Paris is defiling before. Here is a rich equipage. On the box is a coachman, fat as a canon, powdered and curled; the horse are two thorough-bred high-steppers; the door-panels are adorned with a ducal coronet; on the footboard at the back are two valets in gorgeous livery. In the carriage itself is a young and beautiful woman, the bearer of one of the noblest names of France, and on the seat in front of her sits her little daughter playing with a white grey-hound, slender and delicate. But, all that glitters is not gold, and behind the carriage of the duchess, whose name [unreadable] amongst the lady patronesses of half the charitable institutions of Paris, follows the smart coupe of the "agent de change," or dishonest notary, who sends his wife to the opera covered with false diamonds, and on the very day when he intends to take the night express for Belgium, does not fail to show himself in the Bois a few hours before his departure. There he salutes his clients with that motion of the hand so familiar to Parisians, and which has replacement the now old fashioned raising of the hat. The poor victims do not apprehend the blow they are about to receive. How can they not have confidence in a man who has just bought a new pair of handsome bays? To be or seem to be are the two poles, the alpha and the omega of the society that passes slowly before us in those brilliant equipages and on those prancing hacks. Who is that woman reclining so languidly on the downy cushions of her Victoria? With what studied grace the waves of her dress fall around her? What harmony and artistic simplicity of toilette? What seductions in that incomparable face, what a fascination in that glance that invites your own! It is Prestora, it is Marco, or, as she is now called, Planmesnal, Fanny Robert Blanch d'Alfortville, or Delphine de Lizy. In short, it is a "Fille de marbre," a marble heart. Let her pass! Next to her carriage is the dog cart of a successful boot maker, then a banker, a journalist, and then the brilliant line is broken by a humble cab laden with a family of long faced Anglo Saxons wearing impossible dresses and miraculous hats. Let them pass! They are happy, and, happily for themselves, they are proudly unconscious of their incongruous costume. Wait still a few minutes and you will see the popular actress of the day exchange greetings with the ex-royal duke who enjoys her favors; the princes of finance; two or three political notabilities and a few artistic and literary celebrities. Such is a pale sketch of the Bois on a spring afternoon before the departure of all Paris for the seaside or the country. August. Paris, France, June 6th, 1882. |