Since the Faubourg has been sulking, and the aristocracy is no longer a power in the land, the aristocratic _salon_ has dwindled into a tradition. The young men are so desperately taken up with sport, with automobiles, that they have not the leisure their elders had for the arts and graces of life. The _rosse_ literature has spoiled the traditions of the Faubourg for us. The French aristocracy has come to mean Gyp and Lavedan for us, and a course of those writers may be warranted to drive any intelligent reader into the society of washerwomen and tramps as a pleasing change. The absence from all these heraldic pages, in which everybody is more or less titled, of such a thing as a gentleman, or even an ordinarily honest man, is what stupefies me. What their admirers can imagine would be the benefit to France in upsetting the Republic in order to place in power a party, upon its own testimony, so scantily furnished with brains or honour, is what I am unable to grasp. And if their women-folk had their way, we should have back the “White Terror,” and science and liberal thought would receive an emphatic blow. But happily there is no immediate fear of their triumph. The Duc d’Aumale and the Prince de Joinville took with them to the grave all the prestige that was left the House of France, and not even his followers take the Duke of Orleans seriously. Political intrigue is, of course, worked in the _salon_, as Academy elections are helped. The Frenchwoman’s influence is too great not to find an opening in every question of the hour. If she has no vote, she inhabits a land where the sorcery of her sex exercises a wider and deeper, a more permanent power than any political rights could ever give her, though, for many reasons, I am inclined to believe that it would be better for her and for her race if the significance of this power were other than it is. In a country where the courtesan plays a triumphant part, where newspapers solemnly recount her doings, describe her toilettes at Longchamps, at Auteuil, and interview her, we can scarcely expect women not to misuse their sovereignty. They know that the day it bores them to be chaste, they need not cloak sin in the mantle of night. They may wear their lovers on their sleeves in broad daylight, and lose not a pennyweight of consideration. The _salon_ of the woman who is known to have had (or to have) sentimental adventures will be thronged, and people will only smile and say of her that she “distracts” herself. I remember hearing an extraordinary story once of a beautiful woman, the admired and courted holder of a famous _salon_. The cousin of the friend who told me the story fell a victim to her charms, and was staying with his mother at some Mediterranean resort, when he learnt of the siren’s arrival at a neighbouring town. He forsook his mother to rush after her, and remained with her during the greater part of the long summer vacation. When their holiday had drawn to a close, the lady