The mention of mustard and gingerbread, reminds me that here, opposite to the staircase, is the kitchen, where, between eight great furnaces, two in each wall, below a converging shaft, fashioned to carry the fumes upward to the blue sky, the Duke's chef superintended a small army of perspiring cooks and scullions. My wife's brains were busy with such dreams, as she sat in that courtyard sketching the well, the staircase, and little Marie Bon, who, for two sous, and the privilege of being allowed to tell about her uncle, also a painter--he worked on back doors--allowed herself to be drawn. And while the picture grew, tiresome boys would come up and jostle each other, and make remarks--usually, however, of a complimentary nature. [Illustration: · WELL OUTSIDE THE DUKE'S KITCHEN ·] "Ma foi, c'est épatant, ça!" "C'est très chic--beaucoup mieux qu'une photographie." Gallant young men, too, would come, and say boldly, as though prepared to step into the breach, "Madame, n'a pas de cavalier aujourdhui!" And diffident old ladies, shy, but unable to restrain their curiosity, would come up and say, "Est-ce qu'on est permis de regarder un peu, Madame?" And my wife would smile and reply, "Mais oui, certainement." For towards good and diffident old ladies her heart is as soft as it is adamantine towards small and cheeky urchins. [Illustration: Vine Ornament] One other building in Dijon I will mention--the Palais de Justice, which has a beautiful Renaissance façade, with a high gable in the Flemish style, and a domed Corinthian porch. The threatening darkness of the stone, and the grim, lurid, purplish colours it takes in certain lights, harmonise well with our memories of deeds done in that Salle des Pas Perdus, and the torture chamber of the prisons within. This Palace was also the Parliament House of the Valois Dukes. * * * * *