My Queen of the Night.

Autumn in Paris. An invitation to The Magic Flute from Solange, my favorite French horsewoman and cultural docent.

We meet at Caf de la Paix. Alabaster skin, crimson lips; her pale blonde hair seems to be pulled back even more tautly than usual.

She sips Cancale oysters from their crusty shells and washes them down with an extra-dry champagne that I, for one, have never heard of.

I help her on with her long frock coat. We head out for the Opra.

My dear, you are wickedly lovely tonight.

Wicked? Solange smiles. Thats the nicest thing youve ever said to me, Peterman.

When the Queen of the Night hits that high F6 in the second act, she is in heaven.

Paris Frock Coat (No. 3082). A long cut of lush cotton corduroy, satin-lined, flares down from the waist to just below the knees. High notched collar and peaked shoulder caps. Self-covered buttons.

A shapely thing, especially those curvy pockets and the contoured panels down the

sides of the bodice; never saw those before. Imported.