On that occasion I had been bored, I must
say; and, moreover, had found myself
compelled to contribute, in the style of a
milord, towards setting up the young pair
in life for which purpose a soup-plate was
sent round among the guests. It was next
proposed to inspect the manners of the
lower orders. With great pleasure;—but
how, and where? Somebody had heard of a
great establishment, which could not be far
off, where "the million" were in the habit of
congregating to an unlimited extent—on
Sundays especially. We would stop the first
intelligent plebeian we came across, and
inquire for such a place. Here is a man in a
blouse, with a pipe in his mouth: a circle is
formed round him, and six questions are
addressed to him at once. He is a plebeian,
but not intelligent—so we let him pass. The
next is our man: he looks contemptuously
at us for our ignorance, and directs us to the
Barrière de Rochechouart—le Petit
Ramponneau, kept by the Père Nicolet, whom
everybody (sarcastic emphasis on everybody)
knows.

The Barrière de Rochechouart is not far off;
and the Barrier once gained, the Petit
Ramponneau is not difficult to find. A long
passage, bordered by trees, leads into a
spacious court-yard, bounded by gardens.
Round the court-yard, taking the air
pleasantly, hang the carcases of sheep and oxen
in great—in astonishing—in overwhelming
numbers. Not a pleasant spectacle, truly, to
a person of taste; but, viewed with an utilitarian
eye, magnificent indeed. Mr. Pelham
would find it simply disgusting: Mr.M'Culloch
would probably describe it as a grand and
gratifying sight. Making our way across the
court-yard, rather inclined to agree with Mr.
Pelham, we pass through the most conspicuous
door fronting us, and find ourselves at once in
the kitchen—an immense hall, crowded with
company, well lighted up, and redolent of

——"the steam
Of thirty thousand dinners."

On the right hand, on entering, there is a
bar—a pewter counter crowded with wooden
wine measures—in the regular public-house
style; but with something more of adornment
in the way of flowers and mirrors. On
the left, the actual batterie de cuisine is railed
off, like the sacred portion of a banking-house.
On the sacred side of the railing
the prominent object is a copper of
portentous dimensions;—seething and hissing
and sending forth a fragrant steam, which,
night and day, I believe, is never known
to stop. Cooks, light and active, white-capped
and jacketed, are flitting about, and
receiving directions from the proprietor—the
great and solemn Nicolet himself. To say
that the Père was stout, would be, simply, to
convey the idea of a man who has more than
the ordinary amount of flesh upon his bones.
To say that he was solemn and grand, would
not be distinguishing him from the general
notion of solemnity and grandeur, as associated
with any heavy and stupid persons. Let it
be understood then that he united all these
qualities in their very best sense, and had,
besides, a bonhommie and good-humour
that is not always found reconciled with
them. As he stood there distributing his
orders, and himself assisting continually in
their execution, he looked like a monarch;
and, probably, felt himself to be every inch
a king.

Meantime, a crowd through which we had
elbowed our way, are choking up the space
between the counter and the sacred railing,
all intent upon winning their way to a little
aperture, through which dishes of smoking and
savoury ragout, or whatever the compound
may be called, are being distributed to each
comer in succession, as he thrusts in his arm.
This great object gained, he passes on and
finds a table where it pleases him. This, it
should be observed, is no difficult matter. In
this principal room itself long tables and
benches are arranged on all sides; in the
garden, in every direction, similar accommodation;
up stairs, in several large rooms,
extensive preparations are spread. Everywhere
—up stairs, down stairs, throughout
the garden—groups are engaged in the one
great occupation. Conversation,—here in
whispers, there buzzing; now boisterous,
anon, roaring and unrestrained—on every
side. Heartiness and hilarity predominant,
and everybody at his ease. As we stroll
through the place, our foreign—and, shall I
add, distinguished—appearance, so unusual
at the Petit Ramponneau, attracts attention.
I hear somebody stigmatize us as spies,
but somebody else re-assures the suspector
by a description a little nearer the mark—
that we are only English—a little eccentric.
It should not be forgotten by philosophic
persons who like to intrude into strange
scenes, that a good-humoured word to the
roughest and most quarrelsome-looking fellow
has always a good effect; and that nothing
stops the democratic mouth so effectually as
wine.

Having "inspected," as the newspapers call
it, the resources of the place, we planted
ourselves down stairs to see what it could afford
us by way of refreshment. Here the proprietor
himself was at hand, all bows and blandishments
and expressions of "distinguished
consideration," and, through him, we duly
made the acquaintance of some of the other
people of the house, who were taking their
own dinner—or supper, now that the labours
of the day were at an end. One of these
—a lively, bright-eyed young lady, who
went about like a benevolent countess, a
youthful Lady Bountiful, great in ministering
charities—I understood to be the daughter of
the proprietor. We had succeeded in accomplishing
a very satisfactory fraternisation in
that quarter by the time our wine arrived.