Gilt, Drizzle, and Boxes: The Paris Season Begins

A Carriage on the Boulevard It is a November evening, a little before eight, and a closed coupé is making its way along the boulevard des Capucines toward the Opera House. The body is lacquered so deep a green it reads as black under the gaslight, there is a coat of arms on the door, and the coachman has turned up his collar against a drizzle that has not quite decided to become rain. The two matched grey horses are better fed than a fair share of the city. Inside the carriage, a woman in a fur cape sits very upright, because her dress will not allow anything else. It is a gown of broad black and white stripes, cut low at the shoulders, with a spray of pink roses pinned at the bodice and another tucked into her hair. Several strands of pearls close around her throat. Her gloves are white kid, buttoned to the elbow, and in one hand she holds a small pair of gilt opera glasses she has no intention of pointing at the stage. Her face is powdered, composed, and faintly bored, the…