Bishop's arm was securely held by a little lassie all in soft creamy silks. She spoke Engleesh, and demurely asked Bishop if "we will go to ze _café_ ensemble, n'est-ce-pas?" and Bishop had not the heart to eject her from the party. And so five of us went skipping along with the rest, Mr. Pugson swearing by all the gods that Paris was the top of the earth! When we reached the lower end of the Jardin du Luxembourg, at the old Palais, the bright glow of the _café_s, with their warm stained windows and lighthearted throngs, stretched away before us. Ah, le Boul' Mich' never sleeps! There are still the laughing grisettes, the singing and dancing students, the kiosks all aglow; the marchand de marrons is roasting his chestnuts over a charcoal brazier, sending out a savory aroma; the swarthy Turk is offering his wares with a princely grace; the flower-girls flit about with freshly cut carnations, violets, and Maréchal Niel roses,--"This joli bouquet for your sweetheart," they plead so plaintively; the pipe man plies his trade; the cane man mobs us, and the sellers of the last editions of the papers cry their wares. [Illustration: 9134] An old pedler works in and out among the _café_ tables with a little basket of olives, deux pour un sou. The crawfish seller, with his little red écrevisses neatly arranged on a platter; Italian boys in white blouses bearing baskets filled with plaster casts of works of the old masters gewgaw pedlers,--they are still all busily at work, each adding his mite to the din. The _café_s are packed, both inside and out, but the favorite seats are those on the sidewalk under the awnings. [Illustration: 0135] We halted at the Café d'Harcourt. Here the crowd was thickest, the sidewalk a solid mass of humanity; and the noise and the waiters as they yelled their orders, they were there. And des femmes--how many! The Café d'Harcourt is the head-quarters of these wonderful creations of clothes, paint, wicked eyes, and graceful carriage. We worked our way into the interior. Here the crowd was almost as dense as without, but a chance offered us a vacant table; no sooner had we captured it than we were compelled to retreat, because of a battle that two excited demoiselles were having at an adjoining table. In another part of the room there was singing of "Les sergents sont des brave gens," and in the middle of the floor a petite cocotte, her hat rakishly pulled down over her eyes, was doing a dance very gracefully, her white legs gleaming above the short socks that she wore, and a shockingly high kick punctuating the performance at intervals. [Illustration: 0137] At other tables were seated students with their friends and mistresses, playing dominoes or recounting their petites histoires. One table drew much attention by reason of a contest in drinking between two seasoned habitués, one a Martinique negro and the other a delicate blond poet. The negro won, but that was only because his purse was the longer.