No, I am wrong, there was one--a duke, and a charming man--who
suddenly reined in as we went by. The individual who thus saved
appearances for me was my father, and he proclaimed himself highly
gratified by what he saw. I met my mother also, who sent me a
butterfly kiss from the tips of her fingers. The worthy Griffith, who
fears no man, cast her glances hither and thither without
discrimination. In my judgment, a young woman should always know
exactly what her eye is resting on.

I was mad with rage. One man actually inspected my carriage without
noticing me. This flattering homage probably came from a
carriage-maker. I have been quite out in the reckoning of my forces.
Plainly, beauty, that rare gift which comes from heaven, is commoner
in Paris than I thought. I saw hats doffed with deference to simpering
fools; a purple face called forth murmurs of, "It is she!" My mother
received an immense amount of admiration. There is an answer to this
problem, and I mean to find it.

The men, my dear, seemed to me generally very ugly. The very few
exceptions are bad copies of us. Heaven knows what evil genius has
inspired their costume; it is amazingly inelegant compared with those
of former generations. It has no distinction, no beauty of color or
romance; it appeals neither to the senses, nor the mind, nor the eye,
and it must be very uncomfortable. It is meagre and stunted. The hat,
above all, struck me; it is a sort of truncated column, and does not
adapt itself in the least to the shape of the head; but I am told it
is easier to bring about a revolution than to invent a graceful hat.
Courage in Paris recoils before the thought of appearing in a round
felt; and for lack of one day's daring, men stick all their lives to
this ridiculous headpiece. And yet Frenchmen are said to be fickle!