purse.[2] PARIS, _February 7th_. Rosinante has brought me back with much wheezing from Versailles to Paris; and with me he brought General Duff, U.S.A., and a leg of mutton. At the gate of Versailles we were stopped by the sentinels, who told us that no meat could be allowed to leave the town. I protested; but in vain. Mild blue-eyed Teutons with porcelain pipes in their mouths bore off my mutton. The General protested too, but the protest of the citizen of the Free Republic fared like mine. I followed my mutton into the guard-house, where I found a youthful officer, who looked so pleasant that I determined to appeal to the heart which beat beneath his uniform. I attacked the heart on its weak side. I explained to him that it was the fate of all to love. The warrior assented, and heaved a great sigh to his absent Gretchen. I pursued my advantage, and passed from generalities to particulars. "My lady love," I said, "is in Paris. Long have I sighed in vain. I am taking her now a leg of mutton. On this leg hang all my hopes of bliss. If I present myself to her with this token of my affection, she may yield to my suit. Oh, full-of-feeling, loved-of-beauteous-women, German warrior, can you refuse me?" He "gazed on the joint that caused his shame; gazed and looked, then looked again." The battle was won; the vanquished victor stalked forth, forgetting the soldier in the man, and gave order that the General, the Englishman, and the leg of mutton should be allowed to go forth in peace. Rosinante toiled along towards Paris; we passed through St. Cloud, now a heap of ruins, and we arrived at the Bridge of Neuilly. Here our passes were examined by a German official, who was explaining every moment to a French crowd in his native language that they could not be allowed to pass into Paris without permits. The crowd was mainly made up of women, who were carrying in bags, pocket handkerchiefs, and baskets of loaves, eggs, and butter to their beleaguered friends. "Is it not too bad of him that he will pretend not to understand French?" said an old lady to me. "He looks like a fiend," said another lady, looking up at the good-natured face of the stolid military gaoler. The contrast between the shrieking, gesticulating, excited French, and the calm, cool, indifferent air of the German, was a curious one. It was typical of that between the two races. Having reached Paris, I consigned poor old long Rosinante to his fate--the knackers, and, with my leg of mutton under my arm, walked down the Boulevard. I was mobbed, positively mobbed. "Sir," said one man, "allow me to smell it." With my usual generosity I did so. How I reached my hotel with my precious burthen in safety is a perfect mystery. N.B. The mutton was for a friend of mine; Gretchen was a pious fraud; all being fair in love and war.