Yet things were very different now to what
they had been under the splendours of the Second Empire, that Empire
which went "like a dream of the night." The women seemed to have become
careless, an unusual thing in Parisiennes: they even painted badly; and
it is a sin to paint--badly. I am afraid that I am one of the very
few women who do not like Paris. I never liked it, even in its palmy
days; and now at this time I liked it less than ever. I was so glad
to leave at the end of the week, and to move out of the raw, white fog
sunwards. We had a most comfortable journey from Paris to Modane, and
the officials at the Customs seemed to delight in irritating and
insulting one. When I was passing into the custom-pen, I was gruffly
addressed, "On ne passe pas!" I said, "On ne passe pas? Comment on
ne passe pas?" The only thing wanting, it seemed, was a visiting-card;
but the opportunity of being safely insolent was too tempting to the
Jack-in-office for him to pass it over. I could not help feeling glad
these braves had never reached Berlin; they would have made Europe
uninhabitable. France was charming as an empire or as a monarchy, but
as a brand-new republic it was simply detestable.
We went on to Turin, where we stayed for a day or two; and while here
I sent a copy of my _Inner Life of Syria_ to the Princess Margherita
of Savoy, now Queen of Italy, who was pleased to receive the same very
graciously.
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