the march some whither, or trotting at the heels of Fortune. Time has
become the costliest commodity, so no one can afford the lavish
extravagance of going home to-morrow morning and getting up late.
Hence, there is no second soiree now but at the houses of women rich
enough to entertain, and since July 1830 such women may be counted in
Paris.

In spite of the covert opposition of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, two
or three women, among them Madame d'Espard and Mademoiselle des
Touches, have not chosen to give up the share of influence they
exercised in Paris, and have not closed their houses.

The salon of Mademoiselle des Touches is noted in Paris as being the
last refuge where the old French wit has found a home, with its
reserved depths, its myriad subtle byways, and its exquisite
politeness. You will there still find grace of manner notwithstanding
the conventionalities of courtesy, perfect freedom of talk
notwithstanding the reserve which is natural to persons of breeding,
and, above all, a liberal flow of ideas. No one there thinks of
keeping his thought for a play; and no one regards a story as material
for a book. In short, the hideous skeleton of literature at bay never
stalks there, on the prowl for a clever sally or an interesting
subject.

The memory of one of these evenings especially dwells with me, less by
reason of a confidence in which the illustrious de Marsay opened up
one of the deepest recesses of woman's heart, than on account of the
reflections to which his narrative gave rise, as to the changes that
have taken place in the French woman since the fateful revolution of
July.