lmost
as strongly as a Frenchman as he does as a Russian, and I met no one in
France who was so enthusiastic a republican as he. The present French
Republic (which he insists is fundamentally and thoroughly different
from the Republics of '93 and '48, as well as from that of the United
States) seems to be his ideal government. In a century, he says, there
won't be a king in Europe, except perhaps in England, and there he will
be nothing but a pageant--a political mummy shown to the populace at so
much a head.

In writing of the great Russian novelist it naturally suggests itself to
say a word upon Madame Emile Durand, or "Henri Greville," who has lately
achieved so universal a reputation. One of her slightest efforts has
just been crowned by the Academy, and one or more of her tales has been
translated into all the tongues of Europe, including Dutch and Spanish.
The Durands, who are childless, reside in a little _pavillon_, or house
with garden behind the main structure which fronts the street, in the
not very inviting region of Montmartre. Madame Greville is a
comfortable-looking lady of thirty-five with the air of forty, and is a
most agreeable talker. In her varied experience she has seen a good deal
of the up and downs of life, but has now settled down, as she told me,
"to making her three novels a year." I hardly think she will ever again
reach the level of the _Expiation de Saveli_. Her husband is the Paris
correspondent of a St. Petersburg paper, and incidentally a painter.

No sketch of French literary society, however short, should omit mention
of that most famous of all periodicals, the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. It
is forty-eight years old, and during its long life it has seen perhaps a
hundred rivals rise and fall, while it has itself gone on constantly
increasing in importance, so that it is now become an institution, like
the Academy or the Comedie Francaise. Its offices are located in a fine
old hotel not far from the noble faubourg, where M. Charles Buloz (son
of the founder of the _Revue_) and his wife give during the winter
fortnightly receptions to the contributors and their friends, as well as
literary dinner-parties which form, I suppose, the most catholic
reunions in Paris; and for the excellent reason that all opinions except
blatant radicalism and the dogmatic idiocy of Bishop Dupanloup and his
friends are represented by its contributors. By admitting him to its
columns the _Revue_ gives a French