uisine
Bourgeoise, for which, a few years later, a stranger in Paris would have
almost sought in vain. Luckily, however, for my enjoyment and digestive
organs, I was no stranger to Paris and to the French; if I had been,
both the former would have been spoilt, the excitement of those around
me being such as to lead the alien to believe that there would be an
instantaneous departure for the Tuileries, and a revival of the bloody
scenes of the first revolution. It has been my lot, in after-years, to
hear a great deal of political drivel in French and English, but it was
sound philosophy compared to what I heard that morning. I have spoken
before of the Hotel des Haricots, where men like Hugo, Balzac, Beranger,
and Alfred de Musset chose to be imprisoned rather than perform their
_duties_ as National Guards. After that, I could fully appreciate their
reluctance to be confounded with such a set of pompous wind-bags.

It came to nothing that day, but I had become interested, and made an
appointment with my friend for the Tuesday, unless something should
happen in the interval. Still, I did not think that the monarchy of July
was doomed, though, on returning to the Boulevards, I could not help
noticing that the excitement had considerably increased during the time
I had been at breakfast. By twelve o'clock that night I was convinced
that I had been mistaken, and that the dynasty of the D'Orleans had not
a week to live. All the theatres were still open, but I had an
invitation to a ball, given by Poirson, the then late director of the
Gymnase Theatre, at his house in the Faubourg Poissonniere. "Nous ne
danserons plus jamais sous Louis-Philippe!" was the general cry, which
did not prevent the guests from thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Next morning, Monday, there seemed to be a lull in the storm, but on the
Tuesday the signs of the coming hurricane were plainly visible on the
horizon. The Ministry of Marine was guarded by a company of linesmen. I
had some business in the Rue de Rivoli, which at that time ended almost
abruptly at the Louvre; and, on my way to the Cafe Gregoire, I met
patrol upon patrol of National Guards beating the "assembly." I had
occasion to pass before the Comedie-Francaise. The ominous
black-lettered slip of yellow paper, with the word _Relache_, was pasted
across the evening's bill. That was enough for me. I remembered the
words of my old tutor: "When the Comedie-Francaise shuts its doors in
perilous ti