#robe �� la française

[frostedmagnolias]

Robe à la française

1770-1790

Amsterdam Museum

[artschoolglasses]

Robe a la française, American, 1760-75

From the Museum at FIT

[history-of-fashion]

1770-1775 Robe à la française, consisting of an overcoat and skirt

silk

(Centraal Museum, Utrecht)

[heaveninawildflower]

Woman’s Dress (Robe à la française). France (1760s-1770s).

Silk taffeta.

Images and text information courtesy LACMA.

[digitalfashionmuseum]

Purple Silk Robe à la Française, 1770-1775, English.

Victoria and Albert Museum.

[resplendentoutfit]

Robe à l'anglaise (between 1720 and 1780)

Robe l'anglaise

There are two main characteristics that distinguish the robe l'anglaise or "tight-back" gown from the robe à la Française. First, while both have a silhouette focused on expansion at the hips, it was achieved with the use of delicate gathers, not panniers. As a result, the English gown has a less extreme silhouette.

The second attribute that differentiates the robe à la Française from its English counterpart is that the robe l'anglaise had a fitted bodice and back, rather than the 'sack back' of the robe à la Française with its box pleats, sometimes referred to as "Watteau pleats" .

Both styles featured skirts that opened in front to reveal a petticoat. Both also featured a funnel-shaped bodice. The English gown sometimes showed variations of the bodice as shown in the yellow and green gown below.

And speaking of "Watteau pleats", below is a painting detail from a work by the Rococo master himself, featuring a pink robe à la française. See my post on the robe à la française here.

L' Enseigne de Gersaint (The Shop Sign of Gersaint) • detail • 1720-1721

Robe à la française • Brocaded silk and linen • 1765-1770 • Victoria and Albert Museum, London

Robe l'anglaise with a same fabric pettycoat (with funnel-shaped bodice)

Robe à l’anglaise with a solid jacquard-woven petticoat in a complimentary color (without the funnel-shaped bodice) • c. 1775

And because I cannot resist, here is one more!

Silk brocade robe l'anglaise • 1735, altered 1765

[7pleiades7]

The Love Letter (early 1770s) by Jean Honoré Fragonard (French, 1732-1806), oil on canvas, 83.2 × 67 cm, The Jules Bache Collection, 1949, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City

[empirearchives]

18th century dresses at Malmaison in France. Current exhibition from the Château de Bois-Préau: 1769, Corsica at the Birth of Napoleon Bonaparte

For several years, the National Museum of the House of Bonaparte in Ajaccio, Napoleon's birthplace where his family lived since the end of the 15th century, has been exploring with talent the history of Corsican society, the architecture of patrician houses, their furnishings and the art of living in Corsica in the 18th century.

For the first time, the synthesis of this work will be presented at the National Museum of châteaux des Malmaison and Bois-Préau on the ground floor of the newly restored Château de Bois-Préau.

[gogmstuff]

Some more 1780s big hair fashion -

Top left  ca. 1780 Robe à la française (location ?). From fripperiesandfobs.tumblr.com-page/2 1548X1146.

Top right  ca. 1780 Robe à l'anglaise (Museo de la Moda - Santiago, Chile). From 18thcenturylove.tumblr.com-tagged-robe+a+l'anglaise-page-2 1678X1250.

Second row  ca. 1780 Four views of robe à la Polonaise (Metropolitan Museum of Art - New York City, New York, USA). From their Web site 2893X1315.

Third row  ca. 1780 Robe à la Polonaise (Metropolitan Museum of Art - New York City, New York, USA). From their Web site 900X1200.

Fourth row  1781 The Tea Garden by ? (British Museum - London, UK). From their Web site 3968X5518.

Fifth row  1781 (probable exh' date) Adélaïde Genet, Madame Auguié (1758-1794), sister of Mme. Campan by Anne Vallayer-Coster (Sotheby's - 8Jul09 auction Lot 41). From their Web site; fixed spots w Pshop 3428X4290.

Sixth row  1781 Ernestine Fredérique, Princess de Croy by Élisabeth-Louise Vigée-Lebrun (Nationalmuseum - Stockholm, Sweden). From Wikimedia 1067X1349.

Seventh row  1783 Madame Charles Mitoire, née Christine-Geneviève Bron (1760-1842), avec ses enfants by Adélaïde Labille-Guiard (Getty Museum - Los Angeles, California, USA). From their Web site; fixed spots & edges w Pshop 2332X2965

Eighth row  ca. 1785 Princesse de Lamballe by French school (location ?). From servimg.com-view-18669219-6356 812X973.

[ephemeral-lace]

Rococo at Robe à la Française. Daily introduction of stylish people who gather in "Kawaii Cult"!

Ruka (From Ibaraki, living in Tokyo) Adult, 156cm Today's fashion theme Nobility Blouse♛ Innocent World Stocking ♛ Tablowo Hat, dress ♛ At Alamode Market Twitter @rukaxx

[kittttycakes]

polite society

summary: Hob has had a few close calls in his time, but getting caught has never appealed quite so much before as it does now.

rating: E, because this is just smut

contents: established Morpheus x OFC x Hob Gadling, third person POV, smut, fantasy/dream sex, pre-negotiated off screen consent, role play, consensual faux infidelity for fantasy purposes (just trust me on this one), unspecified historical backdrop (the entire fic takes place in a dream), 1.9k

note: Happy birthday to me! This is pure and unadulterated self indulgence. It does take place in the same universe of as heart for heart, and this is the same Grace, but you don’t have to be reading that to read this! (This technically would be taking place after that fic anyway.) All you need to know is that all three of them are in an established, loving relationship, everything has been extensively pre-negotiated, and it’s all being done in the name of having a sexy, fun time.

There was always the risk of getting caught: someone watching them too closely, noticing that they both always managed to disappear together. It was especially a risk that afternoon. She could hear the sounds of the garden party, not far from them, as she slipped into the hedge maze, holding her skirts close to her to avoid being caught and leaving a trace behind.

A hand reached for her, pulling her to a dead end of the maze, pleasantly shaded to form an enclosed bower with a bench and a handful of crumbling freestanding columns that had once held up a dome. She nearly let out a shout before recognizing the familiar warmth and the smiling eyes before her: Lord Gadling, Hob, to her.

“You frightened me,” she said in a whisper, her words undercut by her answering smile. Hob pulled her closer, leaning in to kiss her once before pulling her deeper into the enclave, until her back hit the cool stone of a column.

“I missed you,” he said softly, caging her in, leaving her feeling pleasantly held.

“It wasn’t safe, you know that,” she replied, reaching up to cup his cheek. He turned towards her hand, pressing a kiss to her wrist, over her pulse point.

“Has he been taking care of you?”

“He’s been—busy,” Grace replied. There was a small thought in the back of her mind, a gentle tug, reminding herself that this was, at the end of the day, entirely a dream, a fantasy, and she didn’t actually think that he’d ever been too busy for either of them, not in a way that would imply any kind of neglect. This element had been his idea, she reminded herself, a way to work out, in dreams, a perceived flaw and—The thought disappeared as quickly as it had come, soothed, and she smiled at Hob, quick and sharp. “That’s why I have you, isn’t it?”

“Always,” Hob grinned at her. “Let me, then. You’ll just have to be quiet.”

“I can be—” she began to protest, stopping as Hob sank to his knees before her. “Oh—”

There wasn’t enough time and there were too many layers to undress, especially in such a vulnerable location, but she gathered her skirts in her hands and lifted them, just enough for Hob to make his way underneath. Leaning back against the pillar for support, she let him move one of her legs to rest over his shoulder, and she had to bite down, hard, on her lower lip to keep from crying out at the first touch of his tongue against her. The heel of her shoe must have been digging in to his back but he made no complaint, save to groan, muffled against her, the vibration rocking her to her core.

Any sounds from the party in the distance faded away as Grace let herself simply feel, her head tipped back against the smooth column, her hands fisted in her own skirts. Beneath them, muffled by the fabric, Hob licked into her with a single minded focus, nose occasionally brushing against her and causing her to tense with a soft, surprised moan each time.

Neither of them could truly be blamed for their lack of attention to their surroundings. They were the only two who would dare to leave a gathering without the express permission of the host, each for their own reasons. Had either of them been paying attention, they might have noticed that all sounds from the party had ceased, carried away with the crush of wheels against gravel as a line of carriages departed the summer house.

“Hob—please—” She was so close, and he was teasing, now, touch lighter than it had been before. She wanted to pull his hair, draw him closer to her, but he was kept from her by the very fabric of her skirts and so she was left to grip uselessly at them instead, wrinkling the silk.

Neither of them heard footsteps approaching until it was too late. He had always moved lightly, as gracefully as a cat might, and he made no noise that he did not wish to, which meant that the heavy fall of his foot, displacing the gravel of the path, was intentional. He rounded the corner as Hob scrambled out from under her dress, the move less dignified than he might otherwise have managed. He stood, attempting to look as though he had been doing anything other than what he had been, the effect ruined by his mussed hair and the slick shine of his mouth.

“My lord—” she began, her voice less steady than she would have liked, breathless still. Grace knew she was flushed, her skirts askew, and she smoothed them down self consciously. What could she possibly say, when it was obvious to anyone with eyes what they had been doing? How much had he seen? How long had he stood, hidden, and watched? Her pulse ran rampant, heart beating so loudly she thought surely they all must be able to hear it.

“Do go on, Lord Gadling,” Morpheus said, dark eyes fixed on Hob. “I do believe you were pleasuring my wife before I so rudely interrupted you. As you were. You looked quite serviceable on your knees.”

Hob raised an eyebrow; he had always been better than she was at hiding his true feelings behind a perfect mask of indifference. He belonged more at court than she did, more used to it by far, but she knew all of his tells, and the flush creeping steadily up his neck, just barely visible under the collar of his jacket, was the least of them.

“Need someone to show you how it’s done?” he asked, smiling, all teeth, a near feral thing that sent a shiver down her spine, so at odds was it with all of his other aspects as gentleman.

“I will not repeat myself,” he said smoothly, with a kind of self assurance that brooked no argument. “On your knees, Gadling.” He looked at her then, a passing glance, but his eyes were soft, impossibly fond, and she winked at him. It was all still a game, and one she was very interested in continuing.

Hob knelt gracefully, moving his jacket out of the way with a flourish, and she saw, for a moment, the gentleman he had once been: proud, nearly arrogant, and so handsome it made her ache for him. “As you say, my lord,” he said, and although his words were addressed to Morpheus, his eyes were on hers. He flashed her a brief smile before disappearing beneath her skirts again, as dignified as he could manage to be, which was a rather surprising amount, given the circumstances.

She barely noticed him moving her gently as he liked, pressing a kiss to her thigh where it rested, close to him, before resuming his earlier position. She bit down on her lip to keep from crying out, watching Morpheus as he walked towards her. She felt as though she were prey, being stalked, pushed back into a trap, and she couldn’t say that she minded. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, flexing them uselessly against her skirts, and she nearly jumped when Morpheus took her hand in his, brushing his thumb over the rings on her left hand: a smooth gold band resting underneath a ruby solitaire of uncommon color and clarity.

“Whose ring do you wear, my treasure?” he asked, voice low, as he brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.

“Yours,” she gasped after a moment, realizing she was expected to answer. Both of yours, she thought privately, but pushed it away; that wasn’t part of the game.

“And whose houses do you spend your hours in? Whose parties do you attend? Who provides for you, your dresses, your shoes, all your fine pretty things?”

“You—you do, my lord,” she replied, struggling to focus. Hob had a single minded determination when it served him, and he was employing it then, drawing her closer and closer to the edge with his tongue.

“You will address me by name, I think, so there is no mistaking your meaning.”

“Morpheus—”

“Better, beloved. I am not unfeeling. I understand what it is to want more. All I ask is one simple thing.”

“Yes?” she asked, breathless. She was clinging to him, she realized, with both hands now, one still trapped in his and the other clutching his arm.

“All that I have is yours. You want for nothing. I simply ask that you share equally with me.” Her answering gasp was drowned out by the press of his lips against hers, and she shuddered against him, nails digging into his hand and the fine fabric of his coat as she came.

The cool stone of the column became a soft mattress beneath her, and when she opened her eyes, she was laying on a large bed, half undressed; only her corset and chemise remained, and she made a mental note to tease Hob for it later, because it was surely for his benefit. Morpheus and Hob were looking down at her, coats long gone, leaving them both in a state of undress—for her benefit, this time, she thought—looking for all the world as if they wanted to eat her alive. She would let them.

“If we’re sharing, shouldn’t it be Hob, between us?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as she sat up, looking between the two of them. Before either could answer, she reached up with both hands, pulling Hob down by either side of his undone cravat, and kissing him, the taste of her still on his tongue. When she pulled back, he was flushed, breathless, his eyes dark, and she smiled at him before looking over his shoulder at Morpheus and holding out her hand. “Come on. He’s good for much more than just pretty words and a witty riposte. Let him show you.”

Morpheus took her hand, allowing her to pull him down to the bed beside her. “He takes direction terribly well,” she continued, raising the hand she held to her lips in a mirror of Morpheus’s own actions in the garden. “Don’t you, darling?” She turned towards Hob, who, to her great satisfaction, looked as though he were mere moments from dropping to his knees before them both at the rapid change in dynamic, clearly taking him by very welcome surprise. They had outlined several possibilities for this particular fantasy, and this had been one that Hob had mentioned, almost in passing, that she hadn’t forgotten at all.

“Where are all those pretty words now, I wonder?” Morpheus asked from beside her, voice deep and dark and rich.

It was the tone of it, she decided, that led to Hob sinking to his knees with a fluid grace that she had often envied. “At your disposal, my lord,” he said, looking up at both of them. “My lady.”

She reached over, tugging the ribbon out of his hair and letting it loose, running her fingers through it gently. “Go on,” she said, smiling down at him, even as his hands moved of their own accord to undo the fastenings of Morpheus’s trousers. “Fair is fair.” She left her hand where it was, fingers tangled in his hair, as she guided him down.

[angelztribe]

Mugler Vintage Corset dress from angelztribe

[artschoolglasses]

Robe a la française, French, 1755-60

From the Museum at FIT

[theinactivefaniguess]

... Why does it feel like that dress was used to inspire this dress

Dress, 1865, Wien Museum. Foto: Christin Losta

[digitalfashionmuseum]

Blue Quilted Silk Robe à la Française, ca. 1750, European.

Met Museum.

[resplendentoutfit]

Robe à la Française, Part II

Fig. 1: Robe à la française • 1730-1740 • © Stanislas Wolff / Paris Musées, Palais Galliera

When I was researching the Rococo fashion era, I collected so many images and I have to share some of my favorites. It's not so much the style of the Robe à la Française that I like (though I do very much like the box pleats and drape of the back) but the fabrics, colors, and patterns. Fig. 1 shows a gorgeous print in a beautiful color combination. Such a print for a dress today wouldn't work very well, as contemporary dresses don't have the volume of the 18th century styles, nor the lovely draping in the back of the Robe à la Française.

The Robe à la Française was derived from the loose negligee sacque dress of the earlier part of the century, which was pleated from the shoulders at the front at the back.

Metropolitan Museum of Art • 1760-70 • Silk, cotton

The silhouette was achieved with a funnel-shaped bust joining wide rectangular skirts. The wide skirts were supported by panniers and hoops constructed from cane, metal, and baleen. Fig. 2 shows a portrait sitter wearing a Robe à la Française with a contrasting underskirt.

Fig. 2: Artist unknown (British). Mrs. Cadoux, ca. 1770