I joined
Monsieur Jules Sandeau. We left Paris by the Barriere des Martyrs,
climbed Montmartre hill, and entered "Uncle" Moulinon's dining-saloon
when it was full of its usual frequenters. I had never seen such a sight
before. Imagine a gourmand obliged to witness with gaping mouth all,
even the most _prosaic_ details of the culinary preparations for a grand
dinner. The dining-saloon was a long, narrow room, low-pitched and
sombre; it was filled with small tables, where in unequal groups were
seated young men between eighteen and fifty-five, anticipating glory by
tobacco-smoke. Here were beardless chins accompanied by long locks;
there were bushy beards which covered three-quarters of the owners'
cadaverous, wasted faces; yonder were premature bald heads, leaden eyes,
feverish glances: look where you would, you saw everywhere that uneasy,
startled air which bore witness to a disordered life. To the sharp aroma
of tobacco were joined the stale and rancid odors peculiar to
fifth-rate eating-houses. I sought in vain upon all those faces youth's
gentle and poetical gayety, the exuberance of gifted natures, the
amiable cordiality of travelling-companions pressing on together in
different paths. The most salient characteristics of this bizarre
assembly were sickly smiles, an incredible mixture of triviality and
affectation, motions of wild beasts trying their teeth and claws,
starving attitudes, words tortured to make them look like ideas, a
brutal familiarity, and the evident desire to devour all their superiors
that they might next crush all their equals. I was glad when dinner was
over, for I felt ill at ease,--the sight before me differed so much from
that I had dreamed.

Monsieur Jules Sandeau gave me his arm, and we walked towards the Avenue
des Champs Elysees. It was nine o'clock when we reached the Rue de
Chaillot, where Madame Emile de Girardin resided. She lived in a sort of
Greek temple, built about thirty feet below the level of the street, and
down to which we had to go as if we were entering a cellar. The house
was full of columns, statues, flowers, paintings, candelabra, and
servants in black dress-coats and short breeches; but everything about
the place looked so accidental and ephemeral that the Comte de
Saint-Brice, a very witty frequenter of the house, used to
say,--"Whenever I visit the place, I am always afraid of finding the
horses sold, the servants dismissed, the husband run away, the
drawing-room clo