The women eye each other as they pass, and can tell at a glance whether their respective chapeaux have come from the atelier of Herbault, or the less recherce magasin de modes of some more humble modiste.  How rapidly can they see whether the Cashmere shawl of some passing dame owes its rich but sober tints to an Indian loom, or to the fabric of M. Ternaux, who so skilfully imitates the exotic luxury; and what a difference does the circumstance make in their estimation of the wearer!  The beauty of a woman, however great it may be, excites less envy in the minds of her own sex in France, than does the possession of a fine Cashmere, or a garniture of real Russian sable—­objects of general desire to every Parisian belle.

I met few handsome women to-day, but these few were remarkably striking.  In Kensington Gardens I should have encountered thrice as many; but there I should also have seen more plain ones than here.  Not that Englishwomen en masse are not better-looking than the French, but that these last are so skilful in concealing defects, and revealing beauties by the appropriateness and good taste in their choice of dress, that even the plain cease to appear so; and many a woman looks piquant, if not pretty, at Paris, thanks to her modiste, her couturiere, and her cordonnier, who, without their “artful aid,” would be plain indeed.

It is pleasant to behold groups of well-dressed women walking, as only French women ever do walk, nimbly moving their little feet bien chausse, and with an air half timid, half espiegle, that elicits the admiration they affect to avoid.  The rich and varied material of their robes, the pretty chapeaux, from which peep forth such coquettish glances, the modest assurance—­for their self-possession amounts precisely to that—­and the ease and elegance of their carriage, give them attractions we might seek for in vain in the women of other countries, however superior these last may be in beauty of complexion or roundness of contour, for which French women in general are not remarkable.

The men who frequent the gardens of the Tuileries are of a different order to those met with in the Luxembourg.  They consist chiefly of military men and young fashionables, who go to admire the pretty women, and elderly and middle-aged ones, who meet in knots and talk politics with all the animation peculiar to their nation.  Children do not abound in the walks here, as in the Luxembourg; and those to be seen are evidently brought by some fond mother, proud of exhibiting her boys and girls in their smart dresses.

The Tuileries Gardens, so beautiful in summer, are not without their attractions in winter.  The trees, though leafless, look well, rearing their tall branches towards the clear sky, and the statues and vases seen through vistas of evergreen shrubs, with the gilded railing which gives back the rays of the bright, though cold sun, and the rich velvets of every hue in which the women are enveloped, giving them the appearance of moving parterres of dahlias, all render the scene a very exhilarating one to the spirits.