force him to inhale all day long.  Epinglard, for so we will call him for convenience’ sake, rarely dines during the busy season:  he is the martyr of his profession.  He has a house exquisitely decorated and arranged, but he lives alone, his daily commerce with women having disinclined him to risk the lottery of marriage.  Nevertheless, he is much effeminized; and his employees will assure you that he wears cambric nightcaps bordered with lace, and a lace jabot on his night-shirts.  His life is entirely devoted to his art, and he conscientiously goes on Tuesdays to the Comedie Francaise, on Fridays to the Opera, and on Saturdays to the Italians or the Circus, because those are the nights selected by rank and fashion, and therefore excellent occasions for observing the work of his rivals.  For the same reason Epinglard will be seen on fashionable days at the races, and at first performances at the fashionable theatres, but always alone.  In confidence, Epinglard will tell you that he adores solitude and loves his art with undivided and disinterested passion.  “It gives me pleasure,” he will say, “to see a woman well dressed, whoever may have dressed her.  For my own part, I do not care to get myself talked about.  I mind my own business and I make my own creations, but I am perfectly ready to admire the creations of others.  It is not the mere creation that I find difficult:  it is to get my creations executed.”

Epinglard talks slowly, precisely, and in a sing-song and hypocritical voice, while his fingers, laden with heavy rings, caress voluptuously some piece of surah or silk.  He is in serious consultation with one of the leaders of fashion, the Baronne de P——.  Suddenly changing his tone, he calls out to a model who is passing, “You there, mademoiselle, put on this skirt to show to madame,” And, turning the model round, he shows the skirt in all its aspects, passing his fingers amorously over the batiste and seeming to give it life and beauty by his mere touch.  “And you, Mademoiselle Ernestine, come here, too,” calling to another model; who is walking about gloomily with a mantle on her shoulders:  “put on Madame A——­’s mantle.”  Then, changing back to his hypocritical tone, Epinglard continues his sing-song monologue to the Baronne de P——­, and tells her that Madame A——­ is a “great English lady who has deserted her husband and is now living in Paris.  She spends about sixteen thousand dollars a year on her toilets.  It is a good deal, yes.  But, imagine, last month I made a mantle for the Countess Z——­ which cost five thousand dollars.  Look at that line” (caressing the mantle on the model’s shoulders) “and the slope of the hips.  It is perfect.  And the embroidery and the trimming, all made on the material of the mantle itself by my own embroiderers.”