tolerates the sub-prefect much as he submits to the taxes, and
declines to acknowledge any of the novel powers created by the
nineteenth century, pointing out to you as a political monstrosity the
fact that the prime minister is a man of no birth. His wife takes a
decided tone, and talks in a loud voice. She has had adorers in her
time, but takes the sacrament regularly at Easter. She brings up her
daughters badly, and is of the opinion that they will always be rich
enough with their name.

Neither husband nor wife has the remotest idea of modern luxury. They
retain a livery only seen elsewhere on the stage, and cling to old
fashions in plate, furniture, and equipages, as in language and manner
of life. This is a kind of ancient state, moreover, that suits
passably well with provincial thrift. The good folk are, in fact, the
lords of the manor of a bygone age, /minus/ the quitrents and heriots,
the pack of hounds and the laced coats; full of honor among
themselves, and one and all loyally devoted to princes whom they only
see at a distance. The historical house /incognito/ is as quaint a
survival as a piece of ancient tapestry. Vegetating somewhere among
them there is sure to be an uncle or a brother, a lieutenant-general,
an old courtier of the Kings's, who wears the red ribbon of the order
of Saint-Louis, and went to Hanover with the Marechal de Richelieu:
and here you will find him like a stray leaf out of some old pamphlet
of the time of Louis Quinze.

This fossil greatness finds a rival in another house, wealthier,
though of less ancient lineage. Husband and wife spend a couple of
months of every winter in Paris, bringing back with them its frivolous
tone and short-lived contemporary crazes. Madame is a woman of
fashion, though she looks rather conscious of her clothes, and is