But there are other things necessary to
domestic life besides chairs and tables; and
a ménage must have a well-organised
commissariat, as well as an upholstery department.
Here it is that our true Frenchwoman
shines pre-eminent. How best to market—
how to save a few centimes by haggling,
cheapening, stinting, without absolute
dishonesty or starvation—employs her faculties
to the utmost; as much so as a general's
victualling his troops in a hostile country.
Early in the morning, our little woman, so
fresh and gay in the afternoon, sallies out to
market, dressed in garments that defy
appearances and fashion. She enquires the
price of everything she sees, whether she
wants the article or not, and offers about
a third, sometimes half, less than the sum
demanded for what she does intend to buy.
In vain the marchands scream at the top of
their voices to madame, exhorting her to be
reasonable—in vain they pluck her by the
sleeve and assure her that Monsieur son
Mari will be charmed with her if she take
him home these delicious greens, or that
ravishing asparagus. She tells them they
must talk common sense, and bids them ask
such prices of the English, who know no
better. She generally ends by bargaining her
articles down to her own prices, and walks
off with them in triumph: for she has saved
perhaps a couple of sous by half an hour's
vociferation. At the butcher's it is the same.

She helps to cook the dinner she has
bought; for servants are wasteful with
charcoal, and she knows to an inch how little she
can use. In that marvellous place, a French
kitchen—where two or three little holes in a
stove, cook such delicate dishes, and perform
such culinary feats as our great roaring
giants of coal fires have no conception of—
she flits about like a fairy, creating magical
messes out of raw material of the most
ordinary description. She mixes up the
milk and eggs that make the foundation
of the soupe à l'oseille, if it be meagre day.
This sorrel soup is a great favourite in
economical households, and is vaunted as
being highly rafraîchissant for the blood;
indeed, one of the most refreshing things
you can take, next to a tisane of lime flowers.
She mixes the salad—oil, salt, and pepper
are all she puts into it; she fries the potato
chips, or peeps into the pot of haricots, or
sees that the spinach is clean, and the
asparagus properly boiled. And then she
turns to the plat sucré, or sweet dish, if she
have one for dinner—the riz au rhum, or the
Å“ufs à la neige, or the crême à vanille—all
simple enough and cheap, and not to be
unwittingly rejected, if properly made. In fact
our friend does the work of head cook; the
servant doing the dirty work. Yes, though a
lady born and bred, refined, elegant, and
agreeable in society, a belle in her way, yet
she does not think it beneath her dignity
to lighten the household expenses by practical
economy and activity. The dinner of a
French family is cheap and simple. There
is always soup, the meat of the stew-pan—
sometimes, if not very strict in expenditure,
another plate of meat—generally two
vegetables dressed and eaten separately; and
sometimes, not always, a sweet dish.  If not
that, a little fruit, such as may be cheapest
and in the ripest season.  But there is very
little of each thing; and it is rather in
arrangement than in material that they
appear rich. The idea that the French are
gourmands in private life is incorrect. They
spend little on eating, and they eat inferior
things; though their cookery is rather a
science than a mere accident of civilisation.
At home the great aim of the French is to
save; and any self-sacrifice that will lead to
this result is cheerfully undertaken, more
especially in eating and in the luxury of
mere idleness. No Frenchwoman will spend
a shilling to save herself trouble. She would
rather work like a dray-horse to buy an extra
yard of ribbon, or a new pair of gloves, than
lie on the softest sofa in the world in placid
fine-ladyism, with crumpled gauze or bare
hands.

A word, too, on the more feminine matters
of economy; for they are curiosities in their
way, and may be of use to one class of the
readers of Household Words. Only those
who have seen the results of this side of
saving would believe in their possibility,
unless initiated in the process. A Frenchwoman
cleans her gloves, light boots,
ribbons, silks, and laces, at the cost of a few
sous, and with surprising success. They pass
for new at any but the closest inspection,
and are worthy to do so. A Frenchwoman
never buys a lining for a new gown;
she cuts up her old gowns, or worn-out
petticoats instead. She unpicks and stitches
up again, changes, turns, irons, and renews,
until every inch of the stuff has served
half-a-dozen purposes, and there is not an
unworn thread left in the whole garment.
A Frenchwoman is always noticeable for
her clean linen—cuffs and collars always
white and fresh; but then she works them
herself, and washes them at home; and
thus procures another large feminine luxury
at small cost. It is the same with her
table-linen. Napkins at breakfast, napkins
at dinner, and fresh tablecloths or upper
napkins constantly renewed. These real
luxuries are also gained by industry and energy,
for the bonne washes them at home. But
perhaps, if she have only one child, our little
woman keeps no servant, and gets on with
a femme de ménage, or a femme de journée,
who comes twice in the day; to clean the
house in the morning, and again in the afternoon
to help prepare dinner, and wash up
the service afterwards. In this case, there is
a frotteur once or twice a week—a man who
scrubs and polishes the floors by skating over
them on brushes. The water, wood, and