HIGH ART IN THE QUARTIER LATIN.

"But, my dear fellow, what else could you have expected? You took
Mam'selle Josephine to the _Opera Comique. Eh bien!_ you might as well
have taken an oyster up Mount Vesuvius. Our fair friend was out of her
element. _Voilà tout_."

"Confound her and her element!" I exclaimed with a groan. "What the
deuce _is_ her element--the Quartier Latin?"

"The Quartier Latin is to some extent her habitat--but then Mam'selle
Josephine belongs to a genus of which you, _cher_ Monsieur Arbuthnot,
are deplorably ignorant--the genus grisette. The grisette from a certain
point of view is the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Parisian industry; the bouquet
of Parisian civilization. She is indigenous to the _mansarde_ and the
_pavé_--bears no transplantation--flourishes in _the première balconie_,
the suburban _guingette_, and the Salle Valentinois; but degenerates at
a higher elevation. To improve her is to spoil her. In her white cap and
muslin gown, the Parisian grisette is simply delicious. In a smart
bonnet, a Cashmere and a brougham, she is simply detestable. Fine
clothes vulgarize her. Fine surroundings demoralize her. Lodged on the
sixth story, rich in the possession of a cuckoo-clock, a canary, half a
dozen pots of mignonette, and some bits of cheap furniture in imitation
mahogany, she has every virtue and every fault that is charming in
woman--childlike gaiety; coquetry; thoughtless generosity; the readiest
laugh, the readiest tear, and the warmest heart in the world. Transplant
her to the Chaussée d'Antin, instil the taste for diamonds, truffles,
and Veuve Clicquot, and you poison her whole nature. She becomes false,
cruel, greedy, prodigal of your money, parsimonious of her own--a