sonage. A complexion like Parian marble, and black eyes and hair in striking contrast with it. The usual aids of colour to the cheeks were not forgotten, but quite what the French call au naturel—a word merely meaning something less artificial than the last stage of artifice. I soon found it necessary so far to qualify language in choosing my dinner, when attracted by bœuf au naturel, &c., dishes which I only found somewhat less artificial than the others in the carte des entrées. La belle (once more, and then I have done with her) has an air and expression of great good-nature; and, what most amused me, a most solemn attitude of correctest propriety. Nobody presumes to address her without previous formal presentation, and it is found impossible to give coffee orders to her majesty except through the medium of a gentleman-in-waiting! To my great amusement I saw sitting at the right hand of "the throne," eating ice, and now and then conversing with the lady, Mr. Walter Scott, and with him several of his travelling companions, friends of my own. On joining myself to their party I was delighted to hear Mr. Scott's remarks on the truly French scene in which we sat, and his commentaries on the singular personage who solemnly, brilliantly, and correctly presided—sparkling with diamonds, multiplied, front, back, and profile, in mirrors, and intrenched in arrondissements of sugar, peaches, and nosegays. We learned that the King of Prussia had been there the night before, and had said some handsome things; a circumstance which made it hopeless for us to be listened to beyond common civility, till the royal impression should wear off.
Many a sonnet was indited in honour of la belle Limonadière,
et son nom par la ville
Court ajusté sur l'air d'un vaudeville.
But suddenly the glory of the café faded away, as do all other glories! In 1824, Romain, the maimed, died from injuries received from a fall from his horse, and two years afterwards his beautiful wife, the admiration of all Paris, retired to a convent.
The most frequented of all the cafes on the first floor of the Palais Royal, after that of the thousand pillars, was the Café Montansier. This was a café chantant, and on the 20th of March, 1815, it was taken possession of by a body of Imperialists, who amused themselves by insulting the Bourbons from six o'clock to midnight every evening. A fierce-looking captain would begin at the top of his voice:
Croyez-vous qu'un Bourbon puisse être
Roi d'une grande nation!
To which a chorus of voices would answer:
Non, non, non, non, non, non, non.
The Captain.Mais il pourrait fort bien peut-être
Gouverner un petit canton!
Chorus.Non, non, non, non, non, non, non.
The Captain.Alois que le diable l'entraîne
Au sombre palais de Pluton!
Chorus.Bon, bon, bon, bon, bon, bon, bon.
