At twelve o clock, Mrs. ⸺ and I drove to “le salon des étrangers,” (for no ball begins at an earlier hour) and the string of carriages was so very long, that we were nearly an hour in getting up to the door. I cannot help taking this opportunity, of commending the admirable order preserved by the police, on all such occasions at Paris. Though, from several streets meeting on the Boulevard, the crowd was great, yet there was not the least accident, nor even the smallest confusion. The staircase, by which we ascended, was elegantly ornamented with orange, and other artificial flower trees. When we entered the outward room, there were already so many persons assembled, that it was not without considerable difficulty, that we made our way into the _salon_, or drawing room. Never shall I forget my surprise, when, looking round me, I perceived the dress, or rather the nakedness of the ladies. I had heard much of the indecency, of which some females were guilty, in respect to _costume_ at Paris, and I had already seen specimens of the thinness of their apparel; but till this evening, I thought it only the failing of a few. I now saw at least two hundred women, of different ages, and different situations in life, all displaying, without reserve or disguise, the beauties, which they had either received from nature, imitated by art, or believed themselves by the aid of flattering fancy to possess. The young and the old, the handsome and the ugly, the fair and the brown, all prodigally dragged into common view, those charms, which a virtuous woman conceals from motives of modesty, and a sensualist from those of discretion. The buxom girl of sixteen, the newly married woman, and the superannuated mother of a numerous family, were all equally exposed. Naked necks, naked backs, and their form, scarcely concealed by a transparent petticoat, left nothing to the powers of fancy.