apartment, very elegantly furnished, very thickly
carpeted, and as warm as any apartment in Paris _can_ be in such
weather. We are very well waited on and looked after. We breakfast at
ten, read and write till two, and then I go out walking all over Paris,
while the invalid sits by the fire or is deposited in a cafe. We dine at
five, in a different restaurant every day, and at seven or so go to the
theatre--sometimes to two theatres, sometimes to three. We get home
about twelve, light the fire, and drink lemonade, to which _I_ add rum.
We go to bed between one and two. I live in peace, like an elderly
gentleman, and regard myself as in a negative state of virtue and
respectability.

The theatres are not particularly good, but I have seen Lemaitre act in
the most wonderful and astounding manner. I am afraid we must go to the
Opera Comique on Sunday. To-morrow we dine with Regnier and to-day with
the Olliffes.

"La Joie fait Peur," at the Francais, delighted me. Exquisitely played
and beautifully imagined altogether. Last night we went to the Porte St.
Martin to see a piece (English subject) called "Jane Osborne," which the
characters pronounce "Ja Nosbornnne." The seducer was Lord Nottingham.
The comic Englishwoman's name (she kept lodgings and was a very bad
character) was Missees Christmas. She had begun to get into great
difficulties with a gentleman of the name of Meestair Cornhill, when we
were obliged to leave, at the end of the first act, by the intolerable
stench of the place. The whole theatre must be standing over some vast
cesspool. It was so alarming that I instantly rushed into a cafe and had
brandy.

My ear has gradually become so accustomed to French, that I understand
the people at the theatres (for the first time) with perfect ease and
satisfaction. I walked about with Regnier for an hour and a half
yesterday, and received many compliments on my angelic manner of
speaking the celestial language. There is a winter Franconi's now, high
up on the Boulevards, just like the round theatre on the Champs Elysees,
and as bright and beautiful. A clown from Astley's is all in high favour
there at present. He talks slang English (being evidently an idiot), as
if he felt a perfect confidence that everybody understands him. His
name is Boswell, and the whole cirque rang last night with cries for Boz
Zwilllll! Boz Zweellll! Boz Zwuallll! etc. etc. etc. etc.

I must begin to look out for the box of bon-bons for the