THE RICH-POOR OF PARIS.

New Zealand Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 4246, 29 October 1874, Page 3

THE RICH-POOR OF PARIS.

(From the Paris Correspondent of a London journal.) There is no such thing as measuring the dimensions of a Frenchman's house. He may live at the top of a magnificent white marble palace in six rooms at a rent of §IOO or §2OO. And yet, when you have climbed up there, have sounded the bell, and have been admitted into the hall, which, with, its highly-polished mirror, will deceive you at once in regard, to the size of the little box, you are convinced that he revels in luxury. Opposite the hallglass, open the folding-doors into the parlor, which is a long room with still more mirrors to aid in increasing' the perspective. Off this room are yet other folding-doors, two of them leading into the dining-room, which is always fitted up in exquisite taste, and, with studied carelessness, left visible to the caller. Try the doors at the other side of the room ; it is hard to open them ? Probably locked. Most effectually locked! They never move upon their hinges. Still they are not quite as useless as " a painted ship upon a painted ocean," for they serve a double purpose, they dispense with the necessity of pictures to fill up the bare walls—for who could hang pictures on doors ? —and they give one the impression that vast apartments stretch beyond. Madame will receive you in the most charmingly languid mariner, if your call chance to occur in the daytime. She has just arisen ; wont you have coffee with her ? This if she means, by geuerous courtesy, to make a friend of you. Now you find your way into what she calls her private apartment, which, like the other rooms, opens into the parlor. It is really quite- a jem in its way. You wish you were French, or at least that you might understand the art of living as French people do. But a little closer acquaintance and a moderate increase in your experience "will tell you that these " people 'work and strive only for the sake of the appearance they make. They, comprehend what the elegances of life consist of, and they will live without the commonest necessities in order to deceive you as to their real condition. A family of seven will actually live in two small rooms, and make their beds up late at night on the floor of the apartments in which, but a few moments before, they were chatting with you upon the impossibility of economising in Paris since the war. Even they, in their 'modest style of living, .find that it takes a fortune now to spend a year in Paris. You arc shocked to hear them suggest that theirs is a simple mode of life; you never thought of being so fine at home. In reality, these people that I speak of live like paupers. They sleep on the floor the year round, and often on the kitchen floor at that. This last is convenient, as they can get up and put the coffee over the spirit lamp, and retire again until it is prepared. Coffee is taken in bed, of course. For the benefit of the girls at home, who may admire and envy this lady of luxury that graciously asks you into her boudoir at eleven o'clock, declaring she arisen, and invites you to take coffee with her, I will tell them something of her toilets, and the singular way in which they change with the hours of the day. Madame goes to market as early as possible. Nobody is out in the early morning—that is to say, nobody before whom she cares' to keep up an appearance—and, as the market-people always measure a customer before settling a price, it is wise to go to the market shabbily dressed, not only because no one will see her, but as a matter of economy. So the toilet of the day is not made until this duty has been performed. In exchange for the great, airy, bath-room, with its abundance of hot and cold water, and its fresh, clean towels, which Americans cannot live without, Madame has, in a little dark hole between the kitchen and her bed room, a pint of water in a basin the size of a finger-bowl. For water is too precious a commodity to be used unless sparingly. It has to be carried from the street up five flights of stairs, and a servant must be paid sc. an hour to do it. No further arguments than these are necessary with madame. With the aid of a dirty little towel, for clothes must bo washed away from home—there is neither room nor water to. do it in these papier-mache boxes—our lady will succeed in making herself very tidy. I have really begun to wonder there is not such a thing as a dry wash. At ten the coiffeur comes, and madame's hair is dressed, as, my dear, you never think of having yours dressed, except it be for a ball. If she chance to be a little grey, the hair is powdere'd after it has been arranged in its intricate puffs, braids,.and frizzes. A coiffeur costs but a few sous, and this dressing

of the hair is, I believe, the stronghold of French women. I know that it made a profound impression upon me. I shall never forget the feeling of flattered vanity and unutterable gratitude I experienced when such a fine lady invited us to make her house our home. If we could put up with their simplicity and make ourselves comfortable in her room she would gladly move into another apartment. All this was to be granted because of the very favorable impression we had made upon her. It would be so disagreeable for us to move into an ordinary boardiughouse ; this should be like home to us. H.ome, indeed ! . I have my doubts if there be many such things in Paris.