heavy penalty awaits one which has had no serious results if it should come under the cognisance of the tribunal of correctional police, and therefore of professional judges. In true French fashion, the law is not made to suit the facts, but the facts are expected to adapt themselves to the Procrustean bed of the law, which naturally cannot recognise such an irrational medieval institution as duelling.

This law of honour, like so much else in France, has its root in vanity. In direct contrast to the German or Englishman, a Frenchman pays more regard to a point of honour than to what is honourable, just as he thinks more of the consideration which worth enjoys than of worth itself. He at once resents anything which in the very least hurts his amour propre. These notions of honour are impressed on the French in their very childhood, just as they are brought up to shrink more from what is ridiculous than from what is wrong. According to our ideas, there is no such thing as a child's "honour," in the social sense of the word; honour can only be applied to men, and only to them in their social capacity. It is quite otherwise in France. There, a boy of twelve or thirteen would consider it an affront if his master boxed his ears; while in the most aristocratic school in England a youth of seventeen is caned if he has disgraced himself by telling a lie. What is true of school is true also of after-life. A Frenchman does not consider himself disgraced by a dishonourable action so much as by being accused of it, however undeserved that accusation may be. But it is only fair to state that such actions are perhaps rarer in France than anywhere else. Nor can I too often remind my readers that it is impossible to describe a state of society without making generalisations which may often disagree with the particular experience of other observers, but are not on that account invalidated.

That a Frenchman wishes his "light to shine before men" is a fact that none would question. What one

likes about him is that he is not ashamed of this failing. It cannot be denied, for instance, that he has physical courage. Yet he himself readily admits that to be thoroughly brave he needs spectators, and then there are no deeds of heroism of which he is not capable. A young man wrote to tell me he was going to the war, "there to meet his death or "-not to see his country saved, but-" to win the cross of the legion of honour." Even the far-famed chivalry of the Frenchman needs the presence of spectators if it is to appear in all its glory. He is ever ready to aid the feeble, to bow down to old age, to make little sacrifices, but he prefers to do it in public. This characteristic is intimately connected with the Celtic indifference to truth. I do not mean to insinuate that the Celt intentionally or maliciously perverts facts in order to deceive others and benefit himself; but he has a want of respect for the truth as such, a habit of unconscious exaggeration and "bragging," a way of making himself out to be braver, more generous, more learned, richer, and in a better social position than he really is. There is nothing like concealment, or doggedness, or bitterness in his vanity, nor is anything more alien to the French character than the conscious hypocrisy too often found in Germanic nations.

There is another element which contributes to the charm of French society: I mean its gallantry. Just as their excessive sensitiveness about personal honour, by entailing respect for the susceptibilities of others, renders social intercourse easy and pleasant, so gallantry gives it a charm and a piquancy, a stimulus, in fact, for which the "flowing bowl" of Germany is but a poor substitute. The coquetry of Frenchwomen is generally far more innocent than is supposed; at any rate, it is much more natural than its opposite. Their desire to please, and their habit of making no attempt to conceal so innocent a wish, renders their conversation most attractive. The restraint imposed by their presence, and the wish to share

in such delightful intercourse, makes the men more agreeable, while it obliges them to keep within limits which they might otherwise easily overstep. Unfortunately, what with the spread of the Anglomania among the higher classes and the straight-laced ideas about propriety at present in vogue among the bourgeoisie, the naïveté and general gaiety of the French are fast disappearing. The old French bonhomie, the old innocent childlikeness, are growing every day more rare. On the one hand, it has become the fashion in the best society for gentlemen to behave like English grooms and ladies like women of the town; on the other, a pedantic tone of seriousness and prudery, which sit but ill on a Frenchman, is beginning to creep into the middle classes and threatening to kill the bright and sociable spirit of olden times. The member of the Jockey Club adopts a form of behaviour and indulges in a freedom of speech in the presence of marchionesses and duchesses which in better days would hardly have been tolerated in a less reputable kind of society; while a member of one of the liberal professions has such a regard for the virtue of his unmarried daughter, that he thinks it necessary to suppress the most innocent joke. It seems as if the French were becoming incapable of the part which is the happy mean between these two extremes, and which they once filled with such grace and ease. The veiled and witty allusion to certain relations of life, the graceful and natural mode of paying court, the tasteful, pleasing insinuation of what would otherwise be objectionable-all this threatens to disappear. Even the vivacious, talkative Frenchman seems to be dying out. Once it was the custom for fellowtravellers and for those who sat together in the theatre to enter into conversation without any feeling of restraint; not, indeed, as in Germany, with a view to obtaining interesting biographical information, but in order to pass the time by talking about matters of general interest or of no special interest at all. Now a man thinks he is

forfeiting his dignity if he does not sit in his place in dumb silence, after the manner of Englishmen. The salons are, however, still tolerably free from this drawback, although here too it is becoming more and more the fashion to be stiff and reserved.

How much the national character has to do with the predominant part which women play in French society is seen from the fact that their influence has made itself felt in all periods of French history, and has been in no way impaired by the presence of the bourgeoisie on the scene since 1789. The Frenchwoman still rules supreme in the salon, in the bureau of the minister, in the family, and even in the house of business, as erst she ruled at court. She has not suffered, as the men have, from the habit of looking at things as mere abstractions. She has preserved intact her sureness of instinct, her intuitive power, and her firmness of character, because, unconsciously obeying her true nature, she has not sacrificed them to the abstract formulas of the understanding, or "principles," as they are pompously styled. In point of fact, Frenchwomen deserve to rule, for they are morally and intellectually far superior to the men. They are formed by nature to excel in what are specially national virtues— love of order, thrift, and domestic affection. Cool, calculating, and practical, they are perhaps less easily troubled by conscientious scruples than the men, have a quicker and surer eye for the family interest, and follow it up with more energy. They are unsurpassed in their talent for housekeeping, for they manage the household with a firm and careful hand, without constantly talking about it, like German ladies. Many of them actually superintend their husband's business, which may explain the want of enterprise in French commerce. For a woman only looks to the profit which lies immediately before her; she does not willingly venture after a distant and uncertain gain, and has no taste for speculations attended by any risk. A Frenchwoman is never likely to lack boldness and persever

C

ance in pushing her way; she has plenty of natural common sense, and has not muddled it with "principles." She is the cleverest of mortals in turning to account any natural advantages, however slight, which she may possess, be it a pretty foot or a pretty voice. She is in the highest degree ambitious, passionate, though outwardly calm and self-controlled; never wanting in tact, elegant in her dress, adorned with a natural grace which it is the special aim of her education to foster; above all, endowed with character and determination. Possessed of such qualities, she guides her husband, or brother, or son; she urges him forward, makes the way smooth for him, undertakes any necessary business which may be distasteful to him; in short, she first wins him his position in life and then helps him to assert it. To the prominent part which women play in France is largely due the peculiar tendency of French society and politics. The passionate pursuit of an immediate gain or interest has always been characteristic of French policy whenever it has not been aiming at the realisation of abstract ideas. And after aplomb, esprit, and bon sens, it is grace, cleverness, and vivacity which make society what it is.

It is the influence of women which makes French life so pleasant, and not for the women alone. In conversation a French woman is a born artist. She has not only a natural talent for it, which the men have in an equal degree, but she expresses herself with a freedom and naturalness which makes the avoidance of any subject unnecessary; and the higher her position in society, the more free and natural is her conversation. Anything like English prudery never enters her head; she calls a spade a spade, and thinks no more about it. While a German or English woman uses a hundred circumlocutions and blushes twenty times over, a young French lady speaks quite simply of the time of her grossesse as of the most natural thing in the world, which, after all, it is. The absence of all sensual arrières-pensées renders friendship