That young Republican, M. Bourget, sincerely loves a
blason, a pedigree, diamonds, lace, silver dressing cases, silver
baths, essences, pomatums, le grand luxe. So does Gyp: apart from
her wit, Gyp is delightful to read, introducing us to the very best
of bad company. Even M. Fortune du Boisgobey likes a Vicomte, and
is partial to the noblesse, while M. Georges Ohnet is accused of
entering the golden world of rank, like a man without a wedding
garment, and of being lost and at sea among his aristocrats. They
order these things better in France: they still appeal to the fine
old natural taste for rank and luxury, splendour and refinement.
What is Gyp but a Lady Fanny Flummery reussie,--Lady Fanny with the
trifling additional qualities of wit and daring? Observe her noble
scorn of M. George Ohnet: it is a fashionable arrogance.
To my mind, I confess, the decay of the British fashionable novel
seems one of the most threatening signs of the times. Even in
France institutions are much more permanent than here. In France
they have fashionable novels, and very good novels too: no man of
sense will deny that they are far better than our dilettantism of
the slums, or our religious and social tracts in the disguise of
romance. If there is no new tale of treasure and bandits and fights
and lions handy, may I have a fashionable novel in French to fall
back upon! Even Count Tolstoi does not disdain the genre.
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