First Part Chapter 4

THE SAME TO THE SAME
December 15th.

Yesterday, at two o'clock, I went to drive in the Champs-Elysees and
the Bois de Boulogne. It was one of those autumn days which we used to
find so beautiful on the banks of the Loire. So I have seen Paris at
last! The Place Louis XV. is certainly very fine, but the beauty is
that of man's handiwork.

I was dressed to perfection, pensive, with set face (though inwardly
much tempted to laugh), under a lovely hat, my arms crossed. Would you
believe it? Not a single smile was thrown at me, not one poor youth
was struck motionless as I passed, not a soul turned to look again;
and yet the carriage proceeded with a deliberation worthy of my pose.

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.