Mr. Thompkins's enjoyment of the meal was as generous as his praise of Bishop's skill in ordering it, and he declared that the wines particularly were a rare treat. By the time that dinner had been finished he was enthusiastic about Paris. He said that it was a wonderful city, and that he was entirely at our disposal for the night. "I suppose, gentlemen," he suggested, "that you are going to invite me to the opera. Now, I have no objections to that, and I am sure I shall be delighted,--it is only one evening in a lifetime, perhaps. But I shall insist that you go as my guests." Bishop laughed merrily, and slapped his friend on the back in a way that I never should have employed with a man of so much dignity. "The opera, old man!" cried Bishop. "Why, you blessed idiot, you act like a tourist! The opera! You can go there any time. To-night we shall see Paris!" and he laughed again. "The opera!" he repeated. "Oh, my! You can fall over the opera whenever you please. This is an opportunity for a tour of discovery." Mr. Thompkins laughed with equal heartiness, and declared that nothing would delight him more than to be an explorer--for one night in a lifetime. "The Boul' Mich' or Montmartre?" Bishop whispered to me. "Montmartre," I replied; "Heaven, Death, Hell, and Bruant." Never had the Avenue de l'Opéra appeared so brilliant and lively as on that cold, crisp December night, as we strolled towards the boulevards. Its thousands of lights, its dashing equipages with the jingling harness of horses drawing handsome women and men to the Opéra, its swiftly moving cabs and heavy 'buses rolling over the smooth wooden pavement, the shouts of drivers and the cracking of whips, the throngs of gay people enjoying the holiday attractions, the endless rows of gaudy booths lining the street, the flood of light and color everywhere, the cuirassiers of the Garde Municipale mounted on superb horses standing motionless in the Place de l'Opéra, their long boots and steel breastplates and helmets glistening,--these all had their place,--while the broad stairs of the Opéra were crowded with beautifully gowned women and fashionable men pouring in to hear Sibyl Sanderson sing in "Samson and Delilah,"--all this made a wonderful picture of life and beauty, of color, motion, vivacity, and enjoyment. Above the entrance to the Opéra red marble columns reflected the yellow light of the gilded foyer and of the yellow blaze from the Café de la Paix across the way.