The gentlemen were attired in long, light trousers, extremely tight-fitting tail-coats over satin or velvet waistcoats, and vastly ruffled shirts, accompanied by the requisite tall hat and ivory-topped cane. Other than the astonishing indiscretion in the cut of their cloathes—which formed such an exact adherence to the figure of its possessor that neither Elizabeth nor Georgiana could look about the room without blushing—the effect of their dress was exaggerated by all manner of cockades, orders, ribbands, and jewellery. Indeed, the secondary occupation of the gentlemen—other than the prevention of anyone near them hearing so much as a syllable or a note of the performance—was the putting on and taking off their gloves, so as to attract all possible notice to their rings.

For the ladies, the plain fashions of La Mode à la Grecque had been swept away with the guillotine. The bodice seemed to have nearly ceased existence, and its office of covering the bosom entirely abandoned; the ladies’ gowns were of such a revealing propensity that it was Mr. Darcy’s turn to blush as he struggled against the competing claims of curiosity and propriety. The dresses were of the finest silks and satins, covered with ribbands, ruches, flowers, and pearls. The hair was similarly adorned and seemed to delight in competition with the elements of nature, effusing sprays of flowers, feathers, jewels, and almost every other device capable of being attached to the head. Bracelets, rings, brooches, necklaces and tiaras appeared in such profusion, that Elizabeth reckoned the jewellery of any one lady present would do herself for a month’s engagements. And, if the noise and general din were not enough to discourage any but the most devoted of connoisseurs, the hats and head-dresses rendered the sight of the performance as impossible as was the hearing of the music. Darcy was disgusted, Elizabeth diverted, and Georgiana determined in the perversity of endeavouring to hear the music.

Georgiana, who had been looking forward to an evening of truly superior music, was put out of all patience by the behaviour of the Parisian opera-goers, and strove like Sisyphus to hear and see the performance. Elizabeth was not particularly fond of the opera, but for the sake of her sister’s feelings, did not own her preference for the antics of the fashionable, hand-kerchief-wielding audience, rather than the action upon the stage. Mr. Darcy, soon wearying of either occupation, simply fell asleep.