… from the Hôtel de France & Choiseul, 239-241 Rue St. Honoré (Place Vendôme)
This was the fourth month of the Republican Calendar, it lasted from the 21st of December to the 19th of January. Nivôse. The month of snow, the impressive ancstor of this emasculate winter, more adapted to the organisation of garden-parties than to the decoration of Christmas trees.
Christmas in France is more fashionable than formerly, it forms part of a curiously persistent anglophile tradition which compelled smart Frenchman to buy their clothes in England, and smart Frenchwomen to refer their fox (terrier), or their bull (dog), or again their pull (over) - all imported from Britain.
As la Gentry, (which I took to mean l’argenterie) was the latest contribution to their curious pseudo-British vocabulary, so it would not surprise me if le stocking were to become literally the last word in near-English, though in point of fact, the sabot in this country takes a place of a stocking in ours.
Children put their sabots, not their stockings, in the chimney piece for le Père Noël to fill. A diminutive hostess once archly informed Jean Cocteau of her intention of doing this. “Elle espère toujours y trouver des jambes,” he muttered. Nivôse, then is a preparation for the Réveillon, the the two Réveillons, Christmas and the New Year. Geese are gorged, truffles are hunted, le plum-pudding (a purely snobbish postwar innovation which nobody really likes) is acclimatised.
The poulterers shop windows look like a Flemish picture, bristling with wild boars, festooned with turkeys, ennobled with stags. There is a touch of heraldry, a sense of décor in the French poulterers which is lacking in his British counterpart. Topical toys, for here there is a fashion even in toys - la poupée existentialiste of indeterminate sex, in slacks and spectacles, is the latest invention, endeavor to appeal, to blaser blessings, anything with the cabalistic in initials C.D. (Christian Dior) from scarves to Canasta sets sells like hotcakes.