Neither husband nor wife has the remotest idea of modern luxury. They
retain a livery only seen elsewhere on the stage, and cling to old
fashions in plate, furniture, and equipages, as in language and manner
of life. This is a kind of ancient state, moreover, that suits
passably well with provincial thrift. The good folk are, in fact, the
lords of the manor of a bygone age, /minus/ the quitrents and heriots,
the pack of hounds and the laced coats; full of honor among
themselves, and one and all loyally devoted to princes whom they only
see at a distance. The historical house /incognito/ is as quaint a
survival as a piece of ancient tapestry. Vegetating somewhere among
them there is sure to be an uncle or a brother, a lieutenant-general,
an old courtier of the Kings's, who wears the red ribbon of the order
of Saint-Louis, and went to Hanover with the Marechal de Richelieu:
and here you will find him like a stray leaf out of some old pamphlet
of the time of Louis Quinze.
This fossil greatness finds a rival in another house, wealthier,
though of less ancient lineage. Husband and wife spend a couple of
months of every winter in Paris, bringing back with them its frivolous
tone and short-lived contemporary crazes. Madame is a woman of
fashion, though she looks rather conscious of her clothes, and is
always behind the mode.
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