all spaces
that were left open, there might be seen in one direction the fountain
playing in the middle of the Place, and in the other, diagonally across
the Rue Espagnole, the Jesuits' Walk, an oblong square laid down in
grass, and shaded in the midst by an avenue of palms. Immediately
opposite the hotel was the Convent of Religieuses, over whose garden
wall more trees were seen; so that the guests _might_ easily have
forgotten that they were in the midst of a town.

The rooms were so dark that those who entered from the glare of the
streets could at first see nothing. The floor was dark, being of native
mahogany, polished like a looking-glass. The walls were green, the
furniture green--everything ordered in counter-action of light and heat.
In the dining-room more was visible; there was the white cloth spread
over the long range of tables, and the plate and glass, glittering in
such light as was allowed to enter; and also the gilded balustrade of
the gallery, to be used to-day as an orchestra. This gallery was
canopied over, as was the seat of the chairman, with palm branches and
evergreens, intermixed with fragrant shrubs, and flowers of all hues. A
huge bunch of peacocks' feathers was suspended from the lofty ceiling,
and it was waved incessantly to and fro, by strings pulled by two little
negroes, at opposite corners of the room, causing a continual fanning of
the air, and circulation of the perfumes of the flowers. The black band
in the orchestra summoned the company to dinner, and entertained them
while at it by playing the popular revolutionary airs which were then
resounding through the colony like the hum of its insects, or the dash
of its waterfalls. As they took their seats to the air of the
"Marseillaise Hymn," more than one of the guests might be heard by his
next neighbour singing to himself:

"Allons, enfans de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrive."

Before politics, however, there was dinner to be attended to; and the
first-fruits of the eloquence of the meeting was bestowed on the
delicate turtle, the well-fattened land-crabs, and the rich pasties--on
the cold wines, the refreshing jellies, and the piles of oranges, figs,
and almonds, pomegranates, melons, and pine-apples. The first vote of
compliment was to Henri, the black cook from Saint Christophe, whence he
had been brought over by the discerning hotel-keeper, who detected his
culinary genius while Henri was yet but a lad. When