ss restaurant. Sitting by me yesterday was a girl who in times
gone by I had often seen driving in a splendid carriage in the Bois.
Her silks and satins, her jewellery and her carriage, had vanished.
There are no more Russian Princes, no more Boyards, no more Milords to
minister to her extravagances. She was eating her horse as though she
had been "poor but honest" all her life; and as I watched her washing
the noble steed down with a pint of vin ordinaire, I realized the
alteration which this siege was effecting in the condition of all
classes. But the strangest _habitues_ of the restaurant are certain
stalwart, middle-aged men, who seem to consider that their function in
life is to grieve over their country, and to do nothing else for it.
They walk in as though they were the soldiers of Leonidas on the high
road to Thermopylae--they sit down as though their stools were curule
chairs--they scowl at anyone who ventures to smile, as though he were
guilty of a crime--and they talk to each other in accents of gloomy
resolve. When anyone ventures to hint at a capitulation, they bound in
their seats, and cry, _On verra_. Sorrow does not seem to have disturbed
their appetites, and, as far as I can discover, they have managed to
escape all military duty. No human being can be so unhappy, however, as
they look. They remind me of the heir at the funeral of a rich relative.
Speaking of funerals reminds me that the newspapers propose that the
undertakers, like the butchers, should be tariffed. They are making too
good a thing out of the siege. They have raised their prices so
exorbitantly that the poor complain that it is becoming impossible for
them even to die.

A letter found, or supposed to be found, in the pocket of a dead German
from his Gretchen is published to-day. "If you should happen to pillage
a jeweller's shop," says this practical young lady, "don't forget me,
but get me a pretty pair of earrings." The family of this warrior
appears to be inclined to look after the main chance; for the letter
goes on to say that his mother had knitted him a jacket, but having
done so, has worn it herself ever since instead of sending it to him.
Gretchen will never get her earrings, and the mother may wear her jacket
now without feeling that she is depriving her son of it, for the poor
fellow lies under three feet of soil near Le Bourget.

_December 30th._

I hear that a story respecting a council which was held a few days ago,
a