French lover generally carries all before
him. For it is so sweet to be understood,
and yet idealised—to have all that
is best in her magnified and exalted, and to
see herself in a mirror that blots out all
defects and heightens all beauties. It is so
delicious to hear those dumb inarticulate
thoughts of ours, struggling confusedly within
our brains, brought forth and set in due
shape and order by one who makes himself
the hierophant of the mysteries of our being;
who interprets us so as to make us almost a
new creation. Talk of flattery! Our coarse
personal compliments deserve as little to be
called so by the side of this supreme essence
of flattery, as an Irish stew to be called cookery
by the side of the carte of the Maison
Dorée. No flattery can equal in subtile
potency that which takes the form of
spiritual interpretation—which reveals to us
a new self superior in beauty and goodness to
that outer husk which the uninitiated only see
—which heightens, glorifies, idealises, yet
preserves our individuality, and which makes
us our own embodiment of the beautiful and
the good. This is French flattery. It is
commendable for its wisdom and ingenuity,
to say the least of it.

To exalt his mistress in her own eyes, yet
ever to hold himself higher than she—a hero
humbling his strength before beauty—this is
the first great success on the French chessboard.
Pride in her lover, pleased vanity in
herself, dumb greatness made articulate, and
veiled beauty brought to light—what more
can the soul of woman need, to lure her to the
altar of her own sacrifice—to the place of her
own bondage?

When this heroic love and spiritual devotion
have been carried out to their sufficient limit,
and when monotony would soon begin to take
the place of constancy, the French lover advances
another step. He offers pleasures in
place of spiritualities. Flowers—even if
comparatively a poor man—winter bouquets
at five francs, or more; violets, bonbons, a
jardinière, or flowers in pots. On New Year's
day his expenditure must be magnificent: not
forgetting the servants; above all the femme
de chambre, if he wishes to be considered
comme il faut, and un vrai Monsieur. For
servants have vast influence in France.
Gifts are necessities in French love-making:
remember this my brother Englishmen, ye
who would attempt Gallic successes, and who
would hear yourselves called gentils and charmants,
by Gallic lips: make presents above
all things, and begin with bouquets and
bonbons. Then come gaities. Theatres, balls,
cafés, petit soupers, and petit coupés, all in
due order and succession: also in due proportion
to the rank of the contracting parties;
for a marquise and a grisette would be wooed
differently of course. And now the divinity
so respectfully idolised, begins the life of a
queen dowered with gaiety and gladness.
To the time of spiritual adoration succeeds
that of social endowment. Every pleasure
within his reach the French lover showers on
his mistress. And all are gay and sparkling
pleasures; nothing heavy or gross. A day
down among the stately trees of Saint Germain,
or between the leafy walls of Versailles, is a
day of unmingled happiness to both; though
they do nothing but sit so well dressed under
the shade for hours together—in full view of
the monde—he smoking a cigar, and she embroidering
a collar; talking sentiment and
love. And a fauteuil de balcon, or a place
in the baignoires beneath, where the lady
receives a bouquet or acien, either in the
dark box, or out in the foyer with the
world, makes a pleasure rivalling that of
children for freshness and intensity. And
we may add innocence. Then, they love
the hippodrome, and the Jardin des Plantes,
the Jardin d'hiver, and the Tuileries and the
Luxembourg; and they drive out into the
wood, and walk through its alleys, bidding the
carriage wait or follow them; and they dine
at those charming restaurants among the trees
of the Champs Elysées, or in the Bois itself
at a certain famous place which all the world
knows; and they hear music and see bright
dresses, and eat good things, and feel the sunshine,
and believe that their lives are to be
for ever after as bright and happy as the
scene around them, and are sceptic as to all
future sufferings in any shape. In fact,
French love in its second stage, means
pleasure.

This, then, is the middle stage of a French
love affair. In the beginning the unknown and
the mute found a revealer and an interpreter,
and the femme incomprise was understood
"for the first time in her life."
In the second stage, the femme ennuyée,
desolée, triste, was amused; and smiles and
gaieties sprang up beneath her lover's hand
as flowers beneath the footsteps of a god. The
sun has risen to his zenith. The next changes
will be decline; the setting; and then night.

The third. Ah! the gray that will mingle
with the shining locks of youth!—the autumn
that must come after the springtide promise
and the summer gladness!—the waning moon
that will turn into darkness—the fading
French love that cannot learn friendship, and
so attain a second growth, another youth.
The third: the term of doubt, of suspicion,
of jealousy, of dictation, of quarrellings, of
weariness, of hatred, of separation; yes,
this third term comes too, inevitable as
storms after tropical heat; and then the
game is played out, the drama is acted to its
end, the idol is displaced, the queen dethroned,
and, after a few hours of tears and a few days
of grief, the—

Hearts so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds—or as the stream,
Which smiling left the mountain's brow,
    As though its waters ne'er should sever;
Yet ere it reach the plain below,
    Breaks into floods that part for ever.