All Paris is a general whirligig out of doors, but indoors people seem
steady, quiet, and sober as anybody.
_November_ 30. This is Sunday evening, and a Sunday in Paris
always puts me in mind of your story about somebody who said, "Bless
you! they make such a noise that the Devil couldn't meditate." All the
extra work and odd jobs of life are put into Sunday. Your washerwoman
comes Sunday, with her innocent, good-humored face, and would be
infinitely at a loss to know why she shouldn't. Your bonnet, cloak,
shoes, and everything are sent home Sunday morning, and all the way to
church there is such whirligiging and pirouetting along the boulevards
as almost takes one's breath away. Today we went to the Oratoire to
hear M. Grand Pierre. I could not understand much; my French ear is
not quick enough to follow. I could only perceive that the subject was
"La Charit?," and that the speaker was fluent, graceful, and earnest,
the audience serious and attentive.
Last night we were at Baron de Triqueti's again, with a party invited
to celebrate the birthday of their eldest daughter, Blanche, a lovely
girl of nineteen. There were some good ladies there who had come
eighty leagues to meet me, and who were so delighted with my miserable
French that it was quite encouraging. I believe I am getting over the
sandbar at last, and conversation is beginning to come easy to me.
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