I have already said that such is the profession of my landlady.
Whenever I am disposed for a little lively chitchat, I have only to
step to the next door but one into her _magazin de modes_, where,
like a favourite courtier, under the old _régime_, I have both _les
grandes et les petites entrées_, or, in plain English, I may either
introduce myself by the public front entrance, or slip in by the
private back-door.
Here, twenty damsels are employed in making up head-dresses which are
hourly produced and varied by fashion. Closely confined to the
counter, with a needle in their hand, they are continually throwing
their eyes towards the street. Not a passenger escapes their notice.
The place the nearest to the window is in the greatest request, as
being most favourable for catching the transient homages of the
crowds of men continually passing and repassing. It is generally
occupied by the beauty of the _magazin_ or warehouse; for it would be
resented as an almost unpardonable offence to term this emporium of
taste a _boutique_ or shop.
Before each of them is a block, on which they form and adjust the
gallant trophy destined to heighten the loveliness of some ambitious
fair who has set her heart on surpassing all her rivals at an
approaching ball. Montesquieu observes, in his Persian letters, that
"if a lady has taken it into her head to appear at an assembly in a
particular dress, from that moment fifty persons of the working class
must no longer sleep, or have time to eat and drink. She commands,
and is obeyed more expeditiously than the king of Persia, because
interest has greater sway than the most powerful monarch on earth."
In the morning, some of these damsels wait on the ladies with
bandboxes of millinery. Obliged by their profession to adorn the
heads of other women, they must stifle the secret jealousy of their
sex, and contribute to set off the person of those who not
unfrequently treat them with hauteur. However, they are now and then
amply revenged: sometimes the proud rich lady is eclipsed by the
humble little milliner. The unadorned beauty of the latter destroys
the made up charms of the coquette: 'tis the triumph of nature over
art.
If, perchance, the lover drops in, fatal consequences ensue. His
belle cannot but lose by the comparison: her complexion appears still
more artificial beside the natural bloom of the youthful _marchande_.
In a word, the silent admirer all at once becomes faithless.
Many a young Parisian milliner has made a jump from behind the
counter into a fashionable carriage, even into that of an English
peer. Strange revolution of fortune! In the course of a few days, she
returns to the same shop to make purchases, holding high her head;
and exulting in her success. Her former mistress, sacrificing her
rage to her interest, assumes a forced complaisance; while her
once-dear companions are ready to burst with envy.
Millinery here constitutes a very extensive branch of trade. Nothing
short of the creative genius of the French could contrive to give,
again and again, a new form to things the most common. In vain do
females of other countries attempt to vie with them; in articles of
tasteful fancy they still remain unrivaled.
From Paris, these studious mistresses of invention give laws to the
polished world. After passing to London, Berlin, Hamburg, and Vienna,
their models of fashion are disseminated all over Europe. These
models alike travel to the banks of the Neva and the shores of the
Propontis. At Constantinople, they find their way into the seraglio
of the Grand Signior; while, at Petersburg, they are servilely copied
to grace the Empress of Russia. Thus, the fold given to a piece of
muslin or velvet, the form impressed on a ribband, by the hand of an
ingenious French milliner, is repeated among all nations.
A fashion here does not last a week, before it is succeeded by
another novelty; for a French woman of _bon ton_, instead of wearing
what is commonly worn by others, always aims at appearing in
something new. It is unfortunately too true, that the changeableness
of taste and inconstancy of fashion in France furnish an aliment to
the luxury of other countries; but the principle of this
communication is in the luxury of this gay and volatile people.
You reproach me with being silent respecting the _bals masqués_ or
masquerades, mentioned in my enumeration of the amusements of Paris.
The fact is that a description of them will scarcely furnish matter
for a few lines, still less a subject for a letter. However, in
compliance with custom, I have been more than once to the