got it back at the Peace of Frankfort, 1871, and it is now
the capital of German Alsace and Lorraine.

I never think of Alsace and Lorraine that I do not recall the statue in
the Place de la Concorde, with gay coloured wreaths looking more like a
festival of joy than mourning,--in fact I never think of Paris mourning
for anything, from a relative to a dead dog, that I can keep my
countenance.

On the Jour des Morts, I once went to the Pere-Lachaise and found in the
family lot of a duchesse with a grand name, a stuffed dog of the rare
old breed known as mongrel. In America he would have slouched at the
heels of a stevedore--or any sort of a man who shuffles in his walk and
smokes a short black pipe. But this yellow cur was in a glass case
mounted on a marble pedestal, and his yellowness in life was represented
by a coat of small yellow beads put on in patches where the hair had
disappeared. His yellow glass eyes peered staringly at the passer-by and
his tomb was literally heaped with expensive _couronnes_ tied with long
streamers of crape, while _couronnes_ on the grass-grown tomb of the
defunct husband of the duchesse, buried in the back of the lot behind
the dog, were conspicuous by their absence. I wondered if the widow took
this ingenious method of publishing to the world that in life her
husband had been less to her than her dog.

Paris crape is this slippery, shiny sort of stuff, like thin
haircloth--the kind they used to cover furniture with. It is made up
into "costumes" which have such an air of fashion that the deceased
relative is instantly forgotten in one's interest in the cut and fit of
the gown. A butterfly of a bonnet, a tiny face veil coming just to the
tip of the nose, with the long one in the back sweeping almost to the
ground, completes a picture of such a jaunty grief, such a saucy sorrow,
that one would be quite willing to lose one or two distant relatives in
order to be clad in such a manner.

The University of Strasburg changed its nationality as often as the
town, but not at the same time. In one of its German periods Goethe
graduated there as doctor of laws--which fact ought to be better known.
At least _I_ didn't know it. But Bee says that doesn't signify, because
I know so little. But Bee only says that when she has asked me some
stupid date that nobody ever knows or ever did know except in a history
class.

The next day after our evening at the Orangerie, at half after eleven,
we went t