deal of time that might haply be employed
to less advantage. Here Philidor, the king
of chess of that day, was enthroned, having
for one of his most constant antagonists the
philosopher Jean Jacques, who was always
beaten and always lost his temper. In a long
list of players appear the names of Diderot,
Voltaire, D'Alembert, the Duke de Richelieu,
Marmontel, Marshal Saxe, Chamfort, Bernardin
de St. Pierre, the Emperor Joseph the Second,
and another philosopher who deserved the title
more than Rousseau—the illustrious Benjamin
Franklin. The Café de la Régence declined
during the troublous times of the French
republic, but by degrees it was re-peopled. At
a later period came Deschappelles, De la
Bourdonnaye, De Forbin, Lacretelle, Fontaine, and a
host of other modern notabilities—Alfred de
Musset being not the least celebrated. But
there are things more disturbative than even a
revolution, and that which displaced the Café
de la Régence was renovation. The decree
went forth to unite the Tuileries to the Louvre,
and, as a necessary consequence, the Place du
Palais Royal was swept away. With it went
the stronghold of chess—not, however, to be
removed very far off: a newer and more elegant
asylum for the disciples of Palamedes being
erected in the Rue St. Honoré, immediately
opposite the open space, close to the Théâtre-
Français, formed by the demolition of one side
of the old Rue du Rempart. M. Delvau, who
supplies these particulars concerning the Café de
la Régence, makes some remarks on chess-playing,
which he characterises as a kind of "cold
madness," and which, though not very flattering
to lovers of "the noble game," are, perhaps,
worth transcribing. "Certainly," he says, "it
is better to pass eight hours by the clock in
pushing backwards and forwards bits of wood,
ivory, pasteboard, or bone, without uttering a
single word, without bit or sup—yes, this is a
hundred times better than employing all those
hours in calumniating one's neighbour; but I
may be permitted to believe that an intelligent
man has other functions to fulfil, and other
duties to perform, than chess-playing or
calumny. The calumniator is a scoundrel, but
the chess-player is an useless member of society,
and we all of us have some useful task to
perform."

Akin to the Café de la Régence is the Café
Procope, in the Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie, on
the south side of the Seine. Coffee was
originally sold in Paris in 1669, at the shop of
an Armenian named Pascal, but the trade
languished after his death, and was almost extinct,
when a Sicilian, one Procopio (whose name was
Gallicised into Procope), revived the establishment
of Pascal at No. 13, in the street which
was then called the Rue de la Comédie. This
was in 1724, and the best company soon gathered
at the Café Procope, including noblemen,
academicians, philosophers, and the guards of the
king. There, were to be seen Voltaire,
Destouches, Piron, J. B. Rousseau, Fontenelle,
Crébillon, Diderot, and many more literary
stars. The actors also flocked thither, and
certain literary farmers-general; for such there
were. To Procope, the founder, succeeded
Coltelli, who assumed the former name, and
in his time the following scene occurred:
Poullain de St. Foix, a writer of dramas which
have not kept possession of the stage, entered
the Café Procope one day in a very bad humour
—one of his pieces having probably been hissed
the evening before. Following him closely
came one of the king's guards, who desired that
a cup of café au lait and a roll might be brought
for his dinner. "That's a poor dinner!" muttered
St. Foix—an expression which the guardsman
either did not or would not hear. When a
man is out of temper a trifle aggravates him,
and St. Foix continued to harp on the same
theme, each time louder than before; until the
guardsman, compelled at last to take some notice
of what he supposed was meant for an insult,
looked up angrily at the author, with the intention
of awing him to silence. "You won't prevent
me, however," said St. Foix, "from thinking
that a cup of coffee and a roll are a poor
dinner. Yes," he continued, more warmly, "a
cup of coffee and a roll are a very poor dinner."
On this the guardsman rose from his seat, and
significantly pointing to his sword, quitted the
room. Everybody wore a sword in those days,
and St. Foix, author as he was, had no objection
to draw his weapon. He followed the guardsman
into the tennis-court hard by, and after a
few thrusts was wounded in the arm. His
adversary then courteously approached him,
expecting the amende honorable, when to his
astonishment St. Foix observed: "Yes, sir, I
maintain that a cup of coffee and a roll make a
very poor dinner!" The guardsman was on the
point of renewing hostilities, when the noise of
their quarrel having attracted several persons,
two of the marshal's guard interfered, took
possession of their swords, and conducted the
combatants before the Duke de Noailles, the senior
marshal of France. Called upon to explain, the
guardsman said that St. Foix had insulted him
several times, even after the duel; but he was
interrupted by the pertinacious author: "My lord,"
he exclaimed, "I had no intention of insulting
this gentleman, whom I consider a brave man
and a gallant soldier; but even your rank
will not prevent me from saying that a cup
of coffee and a roll are a very poor, shabby,
sneaking, miserable dinner!" The Duke de
Noailles burst out laughing, every one laughed,
and so did Louis the Fifteenth when he
heard the story. Thus the affair ended; but
if the poor guardsman's pay had been
increased it would have had a more satisfactory
termination.

There is rivalry at the Café de Procope with
the Café de la Régence as to chess, and dominoes
are in great vogue there—one tremendous match
being recorded, which lasted two years, the
players being M. Renard, the bookseller, and
M. Dantzell, engraver to the Mint. Amongst
the special visitors of the Café Procope is a
mysterious nameless personage, known as "The