Do but look at the cut of clothes; that light visible Result, significant of a thousand things which are not so visible.  In winter 1793, men went in red nightcaps; Municipals themselves in sabots:  the very Citoyennes had to petition against such headgear.  But now in this winter 1794, where is the red nightcap?  With the thing beyond the Flood.  Your monied Citoyen ponders in what elegantest style he shall dress himself:  whether he shall not even dress himself as the Free Peoples of Antiquity.  The more adventurous Citoyenne has already done it.  Behold her, that beautiful adventurous Citoyenne:  in costume of the Ancient Greeks, such Greek as Painter David could teach; her sweeping tresses snooded by glittering antique fillet; bright-eyed tunic of the Greek women; her little feet naked, as in Antique Statues, with mere sandals, and winding-strings of riband,—­defying the frost!

There is such an effervescence of Luxury.  For your Emigrant Ci-devants carried not their mansions and furnitures out of the country with them; but left them standing here:  and in the swift changes of property, what with money coined on the Place de la Revolution, what with Army-furnishings, sales of Emigrant Domain and Church Lands and King’s Lands, and then with the Aladdin’s-lamp of Agio in a time of Paper-money, such mansions have found new occupants.  Old wine, drawn from Ci-devant bottles, descends new throats.  Paris has swept herself, relighted herself; Salons, Soupers not Fraternal, beam once more with suitable effulgence, very singular in colour.  The fair Cabarus is come out of Prison; wedded to her red-gloomy Dis, whom they say she treats too loftily:  fair Cabarus gives the most brilliant soirees.  Round her is gathered a new Republican Army, of Citoyennes in sandals; Ci-devants or other:  what remnants soever of the old grace survive, are rallied there.  At her right-hand, in this cause, labours fair Josephine the Widow Beauharnais, though in straitened circumstances:  intent, both of them, to blandish down the grimness of Republican austerity, and recivilise mankind.

Recivilise, as of old they were civilised:  by witchery of the Orphic fiddle-bow, and Euterpean rhythm; by the Graces, by the Smiles!  Thermidorian Deputies are there in those soirees; Editor Freron, Orateur du Peuple; Barras, who has known other dances than the Carmagnole.  Grim Generals of the Republic are there; in enormous horse-collar neckcloth, good against sabre-cuts; the hair gathered all into one knot, ’flowing down behind, fixed with a comb.’  Among which latter do we not recognise, once more, the little bronzed-complexioned Artillery-Officer of Toulon, home from the Italian Wars!  Grim enough; of lean, almost cruel aspect:  for he has been in trouble, in ill health; also in ill favour, as a man promoted, deservingly or not, by the Terrorists and Robespierre Junior.  But does not Barras know him?  Will not Barras speak a word for him?  Yes,—­if at any time it will serve Barras