whereupon brown bread and black sausages are
spread, tempting sous out of the pockets of the
hive. In the corner is a very substantial stone
police station-house—a building not altogether
useless here. Everybody is so lively, that even,
the drum-majors unbend, and bear themselves
like common mortals. A contemptuous
artilleryman describes a dandy passer-by as a man
with "white-bread" ideas. Heavy grenadiers
chuck nimble nymphs under the chin, while the
omnipresent Turcos appear to be sated with the
admiration of the fair sex. We pass through a
wood to the vast plain where the cavalry and
artillery are encamped. The dragoons are very
dignified: the guardians of the terrible rifled
cannon bear themselves proudly, and cherish an
unalterable affection for the guns that have
ploughed up fields of living men. Everything
has a nickname in France, and these guns
are called Austrian Cigars. Cuirasses are
being brightened for to-morrow; cans of oil
are being emptied upon steel and brass; boots
as tall as an ordinary chasseur are being blacked;
and horses are being fed and groomed by
hundreds. The steeds look lean and woe-begone,
and the sadder they appear the more they are
petted by their riders.

Sir Chops declares that he begins to feel
feverish himself with all this activity under the
still scorching sun; and he is horrified when
he hears that to-morrow this vast plain is to be
a desert, and that the scattered host is to be
gathered together and directed upon Paris.

Dinner in a quiet room at Philippe's
presently brought back the habitual geniality of
Sir Chops's temperament. We horrified him
when we declared that we were going, in the
cool of the evening, to take a last look at the
fever-spots of the Boulevards and the Place
Vendôme. But it is not often that rational man has
an opportunity of seeing so serious a case of
scarlet fever. Every symptom becomes
interesting, every scarlet spot is significant. The
disease has many phases. There is its
commercial phase, for instance. Were we not
right in taking pains to learn that there was
room for one hundred and one thousand one
hundred and sixty people at the windows in the
line where they would come to-morrow? Was
not our severe study rewarded when we
learned that a man had made a fortune by
taking three thousand seats at a low price, and
letting them at a high price; and that the
inventor of the Venetian lamps had his crust and
wine assured to him, by his ingenuity, for the
term of his natural life? The coolness with
which the waiter at the Café Pergod paused
before our empty cup, with coffee and cream in
his hands, and deliberately watched the finishing
touches that were being given to the Peace
trophy, was refreshing in the midst of the fever.
Could any human creature remain indifferenl
and thrifty while hawkers were selling the
Imperial infant in grenadier's dress, broadsheets
of the decorations of all nations, broader
sheets describing all the regimentals of the
Imperial army?

The Boulevards are occupied, although it
is ten o'clock, by a compact, laughing, excited
crowd. Carpenters are sawing planks, for
seats, under every gateway. Cabs, full of
flags, with the eagles lolling out of the
windows, are struggling through the throng. The
Place Vendôme is blocked up. The gravel-
carts are there, and three or four hundred workmen
are there also, giving the final rub to the
Imperial canopy. Behind the amphitheatre
ladies are creeping into the houses, to remain
there all night, that they may see the great to-
morrow from the peep of day. Cart-loads of
flowers are passing hither and thither; flushed
men are buying sou cigars by the hundreds;
paper laurel leaves are fetching high prices;
and wild plans are being laid for securing
advantageous positions upon house-tops. People
who have a little forethought left in this the
height of the fever, are securing sausages, and ham,
and galantine. The pork-butchers are besieged.
Everybody is suggesting to his neighbour that
it would be prudent to go to bed early, because
to-morrow will be an exhausting day. It would
be prudent, but who can sleep in a high state of
fever.

The wine-shops of the Halle will be crowded
to-night. The gamin element of Paris will
keep alive the darkness through, before the
pewter counters, and over little glasses of
hot wine, and savagely burning cheap brandy.
The bakers will have no child's play of it,
baking rolls and galette through the small
hours to the chirp of crickets and the sound of
distant drums. Strolling through the Palais
Royal on the stroke of eleven, we pass through
a group of women busily sewing Legions of
Honour and St. Helena ribbons, for to-morrow's
Moniteur is to be garnished with lists of men
who are to bear crosses upon their breasts in
token of the strength with which they have
thrust their steel at the enemy.

There is a spot, however, which the fever has
hardly reached, yet it is close to the Tuileries.
Calm and cool as oysters, the chess-players of
the famous Régence marshal their pawns and
rest their chins upon their thumbs, while their
opponents snap their fingers over the game in
fear and trembling. We remember a gentleman
who, wishing to give a select society an
intense picture of the storming of Badajos,
declared that, by Heavens! it was as exciting as a
game at chess. We never understood the force
of the comparison till now, when we see bishops,
knights, kings and queens, of wood and ivory,
lording it over mere human high-mightinesses,
and holding their slaves firmly. In the
Régence, the chess-board is not to be cleared for
the field of St. Maur. The fever of the Boulevards
stops at the café doors, and passes aside
down the Rue St. Honoré.

We have made a vow that the midnight bells
shall sound upon our tympanum through the
softening medium of a nightcap. The great
hotel in which we have been accommodated
with a garret at the price of a prince's suite of
rooms (through the kindness of a friend to