him
with a strange kind of unacquaintance that almost rises into respect;
but he is certainly more affectionate, and on far better terms, with men
about town--amative hairdressers, flirting grisettes, and the whole
genus, male and female, of the epiciers. It would no doubt be an
improvement if the facetious Paul could believe in the existence of an
honest woman; but such women as come in his way he describes to the
life. A ball in a dancing-master's private room up six pairs of stairs,
a pic-nic to one of the suburbs, a dinner at a restaurateur's, or a
family consultation on a proposal of marriage, are far more in Paul's
way than tales of open horror or silk-and-satin depravity. One is only
sorry, in the midst of so much gaiety and good-humour, to stumble on
some scene or sentiment that gives on the inclination to throw the book
in the fire, or start, like Caesar, on the top of the diligence to pull
the author's ears. But the next page sets all right again; and you go on
laughing at the disasters of my neighbour Raymond, or admiring the
graces or Chesterfieldian politeness of M. Bellequeue. French nature
seems essentially different from all the other natures hitherto known;
and yet, though so new, there never rises any doubt that it is _a_
nature, a reality, as Thomas Carlyle says, and not a sham. The
personages presented to us by Paul de Kock can scarcely, in the strict
sense of the word, be called human beings; but they are French beings of
real flesh and blood, speaking and thinking French in the most decided
possible manner, and at intervals possessed of feelings which make us
inclined to include them in the great genus _homo_, though with so many
inseparable accidents, that it is impossible for a moment to shut one's
eyes to the species to which they belong. But such as they are in their
shops, and back-parlours, and ball-rooms, and _fetes champetres_, there
they are in Paul de Kock--nothing extenuated, little set down in
malice--vain, empty, frivolous, good-tempered, gallant, lively, and
absurd. Let us go to the wood of Romainville to celebrate the
anniversary of the marriage of M. and Madame Moutonnet on the day of St
Eustache.

"At a little distance from the ball, towards the middle of the wood, a
numerous party is seated on the grass, or rather on the sand; napkins
are spread on the ground, and covered with plates and cold meat and
fruits. The bottles are placed in the cool shade, the glasses are filled
and em