It is a sad proof of our physical decadence that beauty is no longer found allied with strength; the two qualities, formerly blended like metals in an alloy, are now entirely separated, and M. Bonnefois and M. Marseille each presides over representatives of the two attributes, which, when united, produced the most perfect types of humanity. At M. Bonnefois’s establishment beauty is cultivated without strength, and at M. Marseille’s entertainment, strength is [p077] found without beauty. Yesterday I could not stifle these painful thoughts when I took my seat on the velvet benches provided by the celebrated manager of the athletic show, to watch a wrestling match. [Illustration] Full of recollections of Plutarch, one remembers that in the palestrea, Lycurgus made the young girls rub themselves with oil and contend with the Spartan ephebes; the lines of Theocritus on the fight between Castor and Pollux are haunting the lips; the eyes are full of visions of the beautiful forms of the wrestlers of the tribune—the young men of Cephissodote, so beautiful that they were taken for the sons of Niobe, of whom Apollo was jealous. One enters the canvas booth, the movable temple of the heroic Hercules, with a religious shiver, and, alas! what do you see? Stout, [p078] heavy men, their hair shining with pomatum, with abnormally developed chests—this is the glorious phalange; on the other hand, amateurs without either masks or black coats, but who are nearly all in the service of the _Compagnie Lasage_, men who have served their time, or porters in the Great Market. No well-bred figures, no delicate limbs. Compare these bloated Vitellii to the gods? There, my good fellows, go home to your lock-picking and your work. [Illustration] Yet I remember one tragic anecdote of wrestling. It happened at the fair at Loges about fifteen years ago. We had gone into a booth to witness a fight with single-sticks between a fencing-master’s assistant from St. Germains and the proprietor of the establishment. The soldier and the mountebank evidently knew and disliked each other; they were engaged for some time, and seemed less like holding a [p079] match than settling a quarrel; a good many people had followed the soldier into the booth. The mountebank was completely beaten. He foamed at the mouth, rolling his eyes terribly, whilst the fencing-master, swinging himself to and fro, made his cane whistle above his head. When the applause ended, the wrestler demanded: “My revenge! take a belt!” A woman intervened—a tall dark girl, a gipsy, who had juggled before us with weights and knives. “Do not fight,” she cried to the soldier in a voice full of pain. “He is furious! he will hurt you!” The mountebank sneered: “Madame fears that I might break you! Are you a man?” The soldier turned white. He was a tall lissom man, but he did not look strong. However, he quietly unbuttoned the waistcoat that he had put on, and picked up the belt.