There is a regular warfare between women of fashion,--a quiet but bitter warfare, in which flowers, ribbons, precious stones, and smiles are the weapons. It is a mute but terrible struggle, full of cruel suffering, unshed tears, unknown despair; a struggle that leaves deep and painful wounds, for wounded pride leaves incurable scars. But what does it matter? If one wishes to reign as sovereign over this society of the chosen few, she must be more charming than this one, more coquettish than this other one, more polite and suave than all the rest, but, above all, she must show no preference for any one, for, as she wishes to please all, she must permit every one to believe that he will be the favoured one. But you should hear him, this favoured one, the last favourite, the favourite of to-day, of to-night, of the last waltz, the last cotillon, the winner in that charming contest, in which flowers have battled with flowers, and graces with graces. You should see him in his ugly black coat, as he sits at supper, telling the other favourites (who tell him other tales in return) all the delightful things he has had said to him; how he only has to throw his handkerchief among so many eager beauties, who rival each other in their attentions to him; his disdain for them all. In listening to these mysterious and veracious confidences, one is sometimes tempted to ask, Where am I? and who are these men talking about? and to admire more than ever the self-abnegation of women, who give themselves body and soul to fashion, that cruel and brutal goddess, whose priests are these men, and who renders only indifference or scorn for all these years of youth spent in her service. But as I also wished to appear to profit by the abnegation of one of these charming victims, among all the beauties that were blooming at that time, I attached myself to a very pretty young woman. She was blonde, fresh, and rosy, too rosy almost, but she had beautiful large black eyes, that were both tender and bright; her lips were scarlet, and she had beautiful white teeth, real little pearls set in coral, and she showed them on all occasions, and was quite right. The only thing that I did not like was her adorer, a splendid young fellow, as handsome as possible, who, unfortunately for himself (and for her, poor woman, for it showed her bad taste), was called "Beau Sainville." That epithet, "beau," is fearfully ridiculous, and if one is ever unlucky enough to take it seriously, by attempting to live up to it, one is ruined for ever. Certainly, if I had had more leisure to choose, I should have selected a more worthy rival than Beau Sainville, but the lady was pretty and facile, and I had not much time to spare, so I was obliged to appear as his adversary in this contest for her heart. As I had supposed, he was a perfect fool, and when I was presented to the lady he honoured with his attentions, he began almost immediately to manifest every sort of ridiculous jealousy.