They are its tradition, its memory, its
quintessence, the /genius loci/ incarnate. There is something frigid
and monumental about these ladies; they know exactly when to laugh and
when to shake their heads, and every now and then give out some
utterance which passes current as a witticism.
A few rich townspeople have crept into the miniature Faubourg
Saint-Germain, thanks to their money or their aristocratic leanings.
But despite their forty years, the circle still say of them, "Young
So-and-so has sound opinions," and of such do they make deputies. As
a rule, the elderly spinsters are their patronesses, not without
comment.
Finally, in this exclusive little set include two or three
ecclesiastics, admitted for the sake of their cloth, or for their wit;
for these great nobles find their own society rather dull, and
introduce the bourgeois element into their drawing-rooms, as a baker
puts leaven into his dough.
The sum-total contained by all heads put together consists of a
certain quantity of antiquated notions; a few new inflections brewed
in company of an evening being added from time to time to the common
stock. Like sea-water in a little creek, the phrases which represent
these ideas surge up daily, punctually obeying the tidal laws of
conversation in their flow and ebb; you hear the hollow echo of
yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, a year hence, and for evermore.
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