And (let us not deceive ourselves) the overcoat, with which one never knows what to do, and which makes us worry everywhere,—­in society, at the theatre, at balls,—­is the great enemy and the abominable enslavement of modern life.  Happy the gentlemen of the age of Louis XIV., who in the morning dressed themselves for all day, in satin and velvet, their brows protected by wigs, and who remained superb even when beaten by the storm, and who, moreover, brave as lions, ran the risk of pneumonia even if they had to put on, one outside the other, the innumerable waistcoats of Jodelet in ‘Les Precieuses Ridicules’!

“How shall I find my overcoat and my wife’s party cape?” is the great and only cry, the Hamlet-monologue of the modern man, that poisons every minute of his life and makes him look with resignation toward his dying hour.  On the morning after a ball given by Marshal MacMahon nothing is found:  the overcoats have disappeared; the satin cloaks, the boas, the lace scarfs have gone up in smoke; and the women must rush in despair through the driving snow while their husbands try to button their evening coats, which will not button!

One evening, at a party given by the wife of the President of the Chamber of Deputies, at which the gardens were lighted by electricity, Gambetta suddenly wished to show some of his guests a curiosity, and invited them to go down with him into the bushes.  A valet hastened to hand him his overcoat, but the guests did not dare to ask for theirs, and followed Gambetta as they were!  However, I believe one or two of them survived.

At the cafe no one carries off your overcoat, no one hides it; but they are all hung up, spread out on the wall like masterpieces of art, treated as if they were portraits of Mona Lisa or Violante, and you have them before your eyes, you see them continually.  Is there not reason to curse the moment your eyes first saw the light?  One may, as I have said, read the papers; or rather one might read them if they were not hung on those abominable racks, which remove them a mile from you and force you to see them on your horizon.

As to the drinks, give up all hope; for the owner of the cafe has no proper place for their preparation, and his rent is so enormous that he has to make the best even of the quality he sells.  But aside from this reason, the drinks could not be good, because there are too many of them.  The last thing one finds at these coffee-houses is coffee.  It is delicious, divine, in those little Oriental shops where it is made to order for each drinker in a special little pot.  As to syrups, how many are there in Paris?  In what inconceivable place can they keep the jars containing the fruit juices needed to make them?  A few real ladies, rich, well-born, good housekeepers, not reduced to slavery by the great shops, who do not rouge or paint their cheeks, still know how to make in their own homes good syrups from the fruit of their gardens and their vineyards.  But they naturally do not give them away or sell them to the keepers of cafes, but keep them to gladden their flaxen-haired children.