Mercy-Argenteau appeared, comet-like, in Paris, and although she is a very
beautiful woman, full of musical talent, and calls herself _une femme
politique_, she is not a success. The gentlemen say she lacks charm. At
any rate, none of the _elegantes_ are jealous of her, which speaks for
itself. She is not as beautiful as Madame de Gallifet, nor as _elegante_
as Countess Pourtales, nor as clever as Princess Metternich.

Madame Musard, a beautiful American, has a friendship (_en tout
deshonneur_) with a foreign royalty who made her a present of some--
what he thought valueless--shares of a petroleum company in America. These
shares turned into gold in her hands.

The royal gentleman gnashes his false teeth in vain, and has scene after
scene with the royal son, who, green with rage, reproaches him for having
parted with these treasures. But the shares are safely in the clutches of
papa in New York, far away, and furnishing the wherewithal to provide his
daughter with the most wonderful horses and equipages in Paris. She pays
as much for one horse as her husband gains by his music in a year, and as
for the poor prodigal prince, who is overrun with debts, he would be
thankful to have even a widowed papa's mite of her vast wealth. Another
lady, whose virtue is some one else's reward, has a magnificent and much-
talked-of hotel in the Champs Elysees, where there is a staircase worth a
million francs, made of real alabaster. Prosper Merimee said: "C'est par
la qu'on monte a la vertu."

Her salons are filled every evening with cultured men of the world, and
they say that the most refined tone reigns supreme--that is more than one
can say of every salon in Paris.

I am taking lessons of Delle Sedie. He is a delightful teacher; he is so