We have noted the "Grisette,"-that creature of carelessness and animation, so faulty, yet so good; so poor, yet so kind; so laborious, yet so gay; so hardly used, yet so forgiving; depending so entirely on circumstances, yet defying them so laughingly. We have seen her fresh cheek, her simple costume; we have beheld her working in her solitary garret; we have smiled at her gay steps at her festival balls; and we now, though with pleasant thoughts, leave her, to sketch one the most opposed to her, the "Femme à la mode," the woman of taste, whom Paris, whatever her birthplace may be, refines and polishes into its principal ornament.

I found it difficult to entitle this graceful and fascinating being, so charming, so peculiar, so essentially of the capital; for though she may be a Russian, a German, or an Italian, yet is she more essentially Parisian than all who are born within the barriers:

I have therefore adopted her character, rather than her class, and describe her as "The Coquette." We cannot give her a locality, as we have done the Grisette; for as she claims not a country, neither does she a time nor a "quartier." She has lived in the age of Louis Quatorze, as well as in that of Louis Philippe, and may inhabit the Faubourg St. Denis, the Faubourg St. Germain, or an hotel in one of the streets of Notre Dame de Lorette.

Generally speaking, our coquette is not a native of Paris, but has sprung among the quiet shades of provincial life; yet she is not perhaps the worse for that: for, if there be any who object to simplicity of thought, or a rustic manner, they may be assured that the great crucible of Parisian life will leave little of the original stamp upon the ore; so that whether the coquette may have been a turbaned grisette of Bordeaux, a waltzer from Wiesbaden, or the fair daughter of a vine

grower of Italy, the French capital gives her that art of dress, that art of conversation, and that art of carriage, which completely, and for ever, obscures her origin, whatever it may have been.

The coquette is certainly one of the most remarkable features wrought into the canvas of French society; and yet, as we have said, it is not necessary that she should by birthright be a Frenchwoman. Ă native of Paris is born, like the natives of other cities, in a certain class, and trained to certain habits and engagements; but this includes not the coquette, for Paris moulds this character ofttimes out of the roughest and most alien materials; yet when the work is done, nothing we can meet with in the capital is more characteristically French.

Nevertheless, it is excessively difficult to discover, when we search for it, this fascinating item. In entering the gardens of the Tuileries, we meet the Norman "Bonne," with her tall spotless cap, her large round rosy face, her long gold ear-rings, and her lips and eye beaming forth smiles upon her infant charge.

We meet the wife of the shopkeeper, with her long shawl of French cashmere, her little white crêpe bonnet standing over her face, and a good-natured servant girl chatting by her side; the milliner or dressmaker, seated on a hired chair, reading a novel of Mons. Balzac's or Alexandre Dumas', and holding meanwhile her little spaniel in a string;-all these labour and work in their vocation, although all labour is so light in Paris, that abundant time is left for recreation; whilst the coquette absolutely does nothing, and the femme à la mode would shudder at the idea of such collision as she would meet with in the gardens of the Tuileries. One may stroll up the Rue de la Paix on a Sunday, feeling sure, as the dense mass of human beings fall upon the eye, who promenade it on either side, that here we must certainly meet with the femme à la mode. But, as we proceed, we encounter tasteless costumes, ill-draped robes, bonnets decorated with the artificial flowers of a season long passed, wives with their husbands, mothers with their children; we may even see a few Parisian women elegantly attired with a costume eminently harmonious in colour, tissue, and form with the complexion of the wearer, the aspect of the weather, the hour of the day; for even the most delicate shades of differences are studied by the ladies of Paris; yet, as they pass, some act not wholly graceful, some expression of anxiety on the countenance, a thread glove, or an ill-fitting boot, disappoint one with the fact that neither here can we see the true Parisian coquette.

It is, as we have proved, difficult to encounter this ephemeral and fascinating creature; but if, in seeking the Bois de Bologne by the Champs Elysées, we see a graceful, elegant woman, every ribbon and every feather governed in its flutterings by the will and address of its wearer, who passes along undulating rather than walking, seeing all, yet apparently unnoticing any-her costume fresh rather than rich, her robe of the softest material, and her scarf draped over her shoulders like the raiment of an antique statue, every fold shading but not obscuring the graceful form beneath it, her glove and boot fitting with the most perfect exactness, and an air (hardly perceptible, however) of mingled dignity and indifference, we

may say, Here, then, is the object of our search-the femme à la mode, the Parisian coquette.

The coquette thinks less, perhaps, of beauty than any other woman in the world. She knows its caprices, and the difficulty of its detention; she studies grace, therefore, in its stead. She well knows that beauty is less of feature than of harmony-harmony not only in its own parts, and in all that refers to them, but also with the thoughts of the observers; she studies, therefore, expression-sure of its effects.

In this, then, is the secret spirit of coquetry, and the art of life, of the femme à la mode. It beams from her eye, gives grace to her steps, and governs the arrangement of her dress, even to the tie of her bonnet. Her object is to please-and she does so most effectually. Other women may do so by chance, -the Parisian coquette does so on principle, and is, consequently, as sure of her results as an experimentalist is in physics.

The coquette finds all she can desire in Paris,— but this is not enough; she wishes to travel, and may be sometimes encountered at the Spas of both France and Germany. Wherever she moves, however, her distinctive characteristics stamp her as she is; the simplest countryman, who marks the fall of her robe as she descends from her carriage at the retired baths of Vichy, recognizes the femme à la mode of Paris, and long after recollects her polished boot and her assured but graceful step.

The coquette soon, however, wearies of provincial baths: she glides for a short space among the crowds of bathing water-drinkers, who lounge about with their splendid Bohemian glasses full of nauseous liquid; and then she flies back to Paris-having lost, perhaps, a slight yet scarcely perceptible portion of her exquisite art and polish.

The coquette never willingly leaves Paris until her mirror warns her that the time has arrived for her becoming a devotee; and then she retires to a château in the provinces, as her predecessors of the Augustan age did to the bosom of a convent. Here she again plays her part becomes the wonder and admiration of the officials of the" arrondissement," and of old justices of the peace-and finds again the colour of her scarf, the form of her bonnet, and the fit of her robe, subject of conversation in the provincial drawing-room.

In costume, the lady of the province chooses rich silks, ornaments of heavy metals, and a sumptuous shawl of French cashmere; still, she clothes herself, but does not dress.

The Parisian coquette wears a robe of simplest colour; but, the French say, every fold falls softly as a verse in poetry; her bonnet is adorned with the simplest flowers of the season-her shawl is from the richest looms of India. She wears no ornaments, but her apartment is filled with bijoux, all that taste and luxury can possibly unite. The coquette lives but in superfluity; yet she does not acknowledge it as such. Her fans, her rich scent bottles, her sumptuous scarfs, her perfumes and her gloves, her beautiful bouquets of rare exotics, her diamonds and cashmeres, her minute spaniel, her rare embroideries, are as necessary to her as flowers are to butterflies-for, without them, she would still be a Parisian woman, but must cease to exist as a femme à la mode.

All that forms the character of a Parisian coquette, is rendered, by the circumstances of life, eminently superficial. Her sentiment seems to have the peculiarity of the glacier, which casts to its surface all that would disturb its depths. She finds conscience wearying, affection antiquated; she talks of her mind, but never of her heart. She is loved rather for her faults than her virtues, but seldom herself is agitated by feelings of any kind. She feels weariness, but never regret; she attempts not to range in the high regions of sentiment; is witty, but never tender. Her husband is heard of, but not seen; and for her children, they are never even imagined. The coquette is full of selfinterest, self-love; she forgets kindness, as the grisette forgives wrong. The grisette cherishes a faded flower, the coquette forgets that she ever received one; her taste is unexceptionable, but of sentiment she has

none.

The Parisian coquette is always capricious, always changing, and always whimsical, whether in habits or

costume.

Sometimes she rises at eleven, and, extended on her sofa, reads a new novel and receives her visitors, drives in her carriage to the Bois de Boulogne, and in the evening to the Opera. Sometimes she rides on horseback-her habit fitting as exquisitely as her dress; sometimes she may be detected in a theatre on the Boulevards, with an antique fan, and a large circular bouquet of roses and violets; sometimes even she may be found on a fourth stage in the Rue St. Honoré, with a dog and a paroquet, embroidering rich satins; for the coquette is of no rank and no " quartier" exclusively, but rather of all. While as a femme à la mode, her boudoir (that little free state of a Frenchwoman) is lined with blue velvet, and decorated with ormolu.

The Parisian coquette is, in short, to be found in every part of Paris, belonging to none; in all classes, yet forming no combination with any this alone is sufficient to explain the difficulty of definition. Whatever the Parisian coquette wears, she wears with grace and with good taste,-it is the same with the manners and usages of society; during all the changes of the French constitution the femme à la mode has been their type, and her influence unbounded. There is no place in the world, perhaps, where women take so eminent and influential a position as in Paris. The circumstance is easily explained. The boudoir and the salon share her cares. The exercise of the court upon the monarchy in olden times, the constant intercourse of artists and men of letters in modern days, the constant desire for excitement and conversation that is ever observed by a restless and talented people, combined with that love of pleasing inherent in a Frenchwoman, tend naturally to render her more intelligent, ready in wit, and comprehensive in ideas, than where business on the one hand, and domestic cares on the other, as with us in England, tend to sever the general interests of society. That we meet in Parisian women with originality, grace, and good taste, is undoubted; and that their freedom often leads to most pernicious results is also certain-but this may be the fault of their moral training, as well as of the social habits of their country.

We generally think of the Parisian coquette as unmarried, but it is often otherwise. She may be a

widow, and is often rich; and then, instead of devoteeism and a château, bestows her hand, her forty years' experience, and her 600,000 francs, upon some eligible partner of rank and position: thus the Parisian coquette is still happy, and still retains many of her fascinations. She is still a belle, still smiles on the mayor to show her white teeth-plays with her fan to show her well-turned hand, or walks much to exhibit her pretty foot; she speaks a little English acquired in the society of the capital, and compares Walter Scott to Alexander Dumas. If, however, the fortune is wanting, the lady must perforce become a devotee by necessity, even if not so by complexion, as it is said; for the French will not allow that reason or conscience has anything to do with the matter. The coquette, whatever her age may be, dreads a life of calm, tranquil peace, however calculated its materials may be for happiness. Thus, she loves the mingled talent of Bouffé, whom she flies to see at the Gymnase, weeping and laughing by turns over his refined humour and his deep pathos; she loves the melodramatic and highly wrought novels of Eugène Sue, and receives a fresh volume of "Les Mystères" with as much joy as the advent of a new admirer; and so it is that, as a wife, she would rather be ill-used by her husband, than spend her life in the calm interchange of quiet affection; while, if single, the excitements of devoteeism are to her better than the still approval of a good conscience, and she can find something like joy even in the expiatory chapel.

As far as we have followed her, however, we have seen the Parisian coquette but in the rank of a femme à la mode, having her bonnets and her dresses from the first "modistes" in Paris, her boudoir lined with blue velvet and French china, her carriage and its appointments the most elegant in the world, her bijoux of the most undoubted taste, her flowers of the rarest kind; we have seen her as an enshrined goddess, worshipped by vanity and folly-feeling and affection having been long since immolated on the altar of fashion and interest: but the Parisian coquette is to be found in other ranks, where she yet remains distinct; yes! even in the "Quartier Latin," as in the Faubourg St. Germain; but she is no longer a femme à la mode, neither does she more resemble her neighbour the grisette. She is better dressed, but more ignorant; she considers the rank and wealth of her admirer, which the grisette never does; and she is always idle and extravagant. She cannot write, sibly not read; but she wears a satin dress, often torn and soiled, which she is at no trouble to repair; she does not laugh and sing and work, but is surrounded by disorder, and if she does any thing, plays probably a game of dominos or piquet. The apartment is a positive menagerie of dogs and birds; for she dreads thought,-it brings with it the idea of sickness, of death, the hospital, perhaps the Seine. It is very sad, yet is it full of truth, this picture,-and where is there so much pathos as in truth? We will give an example of this now. In the Rue Richelieu, daily,by an open doorway, sits a trembling, aged woman, blind and poor; she holds a little tray of matches on her lap, and, as the sunlight falls on her withered cheek, the traces of tears are to be seen there in channels too clearly to be noted. Men of fashion, differing little in

pos

age with the poor match-seller, remember this aged woman as one of the most beautiful and captivating grisettes of Paris; but though she laughed and smiled and sung, age and poverty (that cruel pair) claimed her as their own. Then read the "Journal of the Tribunals," '—a journal more full perhaps of strange eventful tragedy than any other in the world, because the society of whom it treats is more unthinking, more strongly passioned, more wilful, and more capricious; and there we may often note the fate of those hapless ones, who, in their little chamber, by the drugged draught, or the suffocating vapour, or in the cold waters of the moonlit river, end a life that misery of mind or body has rendered insupportable.

In addition to the classes of Parisian coquettes already mentioned, there are those who affect poetry, music, literature and sculpture; who smoke a cigar with an air of the utmost sentimentality, and in all they do or say affect an eccentric style. Thus, if they lead a little dog in a string, it is of a kind long out of fashion-for dogs have their epochs of fashion in Paris, as have the modes, which change every six weeks. Thus, at the market of dogs on the Boulevard de l'Hôpital, no one will look at the little curly black-eyed thing, once known as the "Carlin" in every boudoir in Paris; a spaniel in our day, as in King Charles's time, being the only favourite of a Parisian belle. The eccentric coquette, however, chooses the carlin purposely to accompany her in the Diligence of the chemin-de-fer, to swing with her on the hammock she prefers to a bed, or to walk by her side on the Boulevards, where she usually appears attired wholly in one colour, black, white, or tartan; the tartan being a peculiar favourite.

There is one point in the outdoor appearance of a Parisian coquette which is notable, and forms part of her characteristics; whatever may be the condition of the asphalte pavement, or the still worse round stone sideways, of Paris streets,-whatever may be the aspect of the sky, or the distance to be trodden,—our coquette is never to be seen with either clogs or an umbrella; she cares for her figure, her walk, and for the general grace of effect, but never for her health. But health resents the slight, and perhaps more women die young in Paris than elsewhere, a fact with which the toilette is said to have much to do.

A woman's position in Paris is very remarkable. I speak of the city rather than the country, because the circumstances that render it so are more powerful in the capital than in the provinces; and the position is remarkable, because in no other part of the world are such opposing influences found in action upon the character of woman-in no other country is there such a combination of extreme seclusion and undue liberty.

As a girl, the young unmarried Frenchwoman is unseen, unheard of, unknown. She may choose between a cloister or a convent school, but here her freedom ends. At about the age of 16 she is married, without her consent, to a rich husband, considered eligible from the years he has spent in amassing a fortune; and all the young fiancée thinks of the matter is, that she will receive a marriage present, in which embroidered handkerchiefs, cashmere shawls, and diamonds, must form a considerable part. She

marries. marries. No more obliged to study painting, music and embroidery from a snuff-taking nun or a crabbed abbé, nor to endure the rigid fast-days of a convent, and to go to church accompanied only by her watchful nurse, madame has now her hotel and her boudoir, -which last is closed at pleasure, even against her mother and her husband. She has her own friends, her box at the "Italiens," her hours of reception, a carriage and servants, exclusively hers. A party dines at her house; the lady orders her footman to be in readiness with her carriage, while the husband and his friends issue forth in an opposite direction; for, were the Parisian lady to be seen leaning on her husband's arm, her character for fashion, style, and taste would be from the moment lost.

If she desires a confidante, she finds one in her femme de chambre; if a friend, in her château, and her 500,000 francs of " rente."

All, it is true, have not carriages, hotels, cashmeres, diamonds, and "rente;" nor do all enter their opera box, sure of the admiration of all the fashionable "lions" of Paris. Yet, the same social condition which forms the femme à la mode, has moulded the character of all her sisterhood; that is, vanity, love of pleasure, and independence of family ties, laxity of moral discipline, and a climate tending to elasticity of spirits, with indifference to all but the present; and thus, though we have the femme à la mode,the Parisian coquette, the grisette, and the frétillon, (as given us by Beranger,) we may note, in the character of all, the working of the same influences, although slight differences always must appear; and the educated woman of high life, and the hard working little grisette,―the one with heart and sensibility, the other with reputation and position,-have both perhaps more that is good and pleasant in character, than we can claim, I fear, for our coquette, who is nevertheless one of the characteristics of Parisian life, and as such highly noticeable.

In England, woman's mission would seem to be to correct, to comfort, and to refine; in France, she appears born to polish and to please. The Englishwoman thinks of life as prose, the Frenchwoman as poetry. The Englishwoman thinks of affection as a necessity, the Frenchwoman demands superfluity in all things. The Englishwoman looks on her husband as her natural support in society, the Frenchwoman as an imposition, any acknowledgment of which is in bad taste. The Englishwoman regards dress as a propriety, the Frenchwoman as that for which she lives.

The Englishwoman seeks her home for happiness, the Frenchwoman leaves it for amusement. The Englishwoman feels remorse, the Frenchwoman the lack of excitement. The Englishwoman calculates for the future, the Frenchwoman cares only for the agreeableness of the present. The Englishwoman cares for the well-ordering of her household, the Frenchwoman for the improvement of her wit, taste, and address.

There are certainly not in England any classes of women so characteristically marked as there are in France, and yet there is more individual variety; but we have done, and must avoid all chance of proving tiresome, as an evil quite out of character with aught that concerns a Parisian "Coquette."

RING of trees, lifting their mossy stems at frequent intervals from a soft green bank of thymy grass, and, in the midst a bubbling spring welling up for ever with the same low murmur, and thence issuing into the broad and open marsh, through which it leads its slender current till it mingles with the Lea. Above this spring, the tangled branches of the encircling trees weave, in the summer time, a roof

of subtle foliage, through which the sun drops here and there some scattered flakes of vari-coloured light purple, and gold, and amethyst-and on the cold and swelling surface of the waters sheds, prodigally, a shower of starry, quivering sparkles. A flight of steps, mossy and damp withal, gives access to the spring; and thither, morning and evening, tend the village children for supplies; but when the westering sun no longer tips its branchy dome with slant and crimson beams, and a green twilight broods above that gurgling spring, the loiterer may list in vain to hear the plash of jug or pitcher in its bubbling depths, and strain his eyes in vain to catch the fleeting outline of a village child emerging from the copse that girds it in.

Tradition, the sponsor of many a way-side nook that else were nameless, has conferred upon the spring the title of "Emma's Well;" and the same tradition, the