One can very well understand this kind of pleasure in a summary way， but how is it to be made apparent？ Taken by themselves the pastimes of society are not to be described； they are too ephemeral；their charm arises from their accompaniments. A narrative of them would be but tasteless dregs， does the libretto of an opera give any idea of the opera itself？ - If the reader would revive for himself this vanished world let him seek for it in those works that have preserved its externals or its accent， and first in the pictures and engravings of Watteau， Fragonard and the Saint-Aubins， and then in the novels and dramas of Voltaire and Marivaux， and even in Collé and Crébillon fils；[52] then do we see the breathing figures and hear their voices， What bright， winning， intelligent faces beaming with pleasure and with the desire to please！ What ease in bearing and in gesture！ What piquant grace in the toilet， in the smile， in vivaciousness of expression， in the control of the fluted voice， in the coquetry of hidden meanings！ How involuntarily we stop to look and listen！ Attractiveness is everywhere， in the small spirituelle heads， in the slender hands， in the rumpled attire， in the pretty features， in the demeanor. The slightest gesture， a pouting or mutinous turn of the head， a plump little wrist peering from its nest of lace， a yielding waist bent over an embroidery frame， the rapid rustling of an opening fan， is a feast for the eyes and the intellect. It is indeed all daintiness， a delicate caress for delicate senses， extending to the external decoration of life， to the sinuous outlines， the showy drapery， and the refinements of comfort in the furniture and architecture. Fill your imagination with these accessories and with these figures and you will take as much interest in their amusements as they did. In such a place and in such company it suffices to be together to be content. Their indolence is no burden to them for they sport with existence. - At Chanteloup， the Duc de Choiseul， in disgrace， finds the fashionable world flocking to see him； nothing is done and yet no hours of the day are unoccupied.[53] "The Duchess has only two hours' time to herself and these two hours are devoted to her toilet and her letters； the calculation is a ****** one： she gets up at eleven； breakfasts at noon， and this is followed by conversation， which lasts three or four hours； dinner comes at six， after which there is play and the reading of the memoirs of Mme. de Maintenon."Ordinarily "the company remains together until two o'clock in the morning." Intellectual ******* is complete. There is no confusion， no anxiety. They play whist and tric-trac in the afternoon and faro in the evening. "They do to day what they did yesterday and what they will do to-morrow； the dinner-supper is to them the most important affair in life， and their only complaint in the world is of their digestion. Time goes so fast I always fancy that I arrived only the evening before." Sometimes they get up a little race and the ladies are disposed to take part in it， "for they are all very agile and able to run around the drawing room five or six times every day." But they prefer indoors to the open air； in these days true sunshine consists of candle-light and the finest sky is a painted ceiling； is there any other less subject to inclemencies or better adapted to conversation and merriment？ - They accordingly chat and jest， in words with present friends， and by letters with absent friends. They lecture old Mme. du Deffant， who is too lively and whom they style the "little girl"； the young Duchesse， tender and sensible， is "her grandmamma."As for "grandpapa，" M. de Choiseul， "a slight cold keeping him in bed he has fairy stories read to him all day long， a species of reading to which we are all given； we find them as probable as modern history. Do not imagine that he is unoccupied. He has had a tapestry frame put up in the drawing room at which he works， I cannot say with the greatest skill， but at least with the greatest assiduity. . . . Now， our delight is in flying a kite； grandpapa has never seen this sight and he is enraptured with it." The pastime， in itself， is nothing； it is resorted to according to opportunity or the taste of the hour， now taken up and now let alone， and the abbé soon writes： "I do not speak about our races because we race no more， nor of our readings because we do not read， nor of our promenades because we do not go out. What， then， do we do？ Some play billiards， others dominoes， and others backgammon. We weave， we ravel and we unravel. Time pushes us on and we pay him back."Other circles present the same spectacle. Every occupation being an amusement， a caprice or an impulse of fashion brings one into favor.
