Dorsenne was about to set out for the campaign in Prussia. He was the possessor of a tasteful but brilliant uniform, which he was desirous of exhibiting as closely as possible to the enemy, and which he intended to wear at the balls at Berlin. It was duly packed up; and Dorsenne, who was to set out on the morrow, took it into his head to pay a visit in the evening to the Théâtre de la Gaîté, where they play such melancholy melodramas, in order to see the somewhat celebrated actor Tautain in one of his military characters. The first act passed off well enough; but in the second Tautain appeared in the full uniform of a general. Dorsenne was astonished; he put up his glass, recognized his property on Tautain’s back, and, exploding with wrath, he cried to his aide-de-camp:— “Arrest that rascal; take him to the corps-de-garde; I will be there as soon as you; he has stolen my coat!” The piece was interrupted: four soldiers escorted Tautain to the neighbouring “poste,” and there stood the General as scarlet as Major Bagstock. “Where did you steal that coat, you wretched mountebank?” exclaimed Dorsenne. “I am neither thief nor mountebank,” said Tautain, who was pale with rage and fright; “I bought it not two hours ago at the Temple.” When the affair was examined into, Dorsenne’s valet turned out to be the thief. The latter was punished as he merited; and the General, leaving his coat, lace, and epaulettes to the comedian, went through the campaign in an old uniform and with his accustomed success. In this quarter of the Temple takes place the last transformation of the black dress coat, the silk waistcoat, and the polished leather boots. The French _feuilletoniste_ who is known by the name of M. D’Anglemont, has devoted much of his acute observation to the manners of the Temple Exchange. It is from him we learn that when a coat has passed through all its degrees of descent,—when it has been transferred from maker to owner, from the latter to his valet, from the valet to the porter, and from that functionary to the Norman who plies in Paris the vocation which is monopolized in London by sons of ancient Israel,—it soon after arrives at the Temple, the necropolis of Parisian costumes. It is there turned, mended, and re-made; and it has yet a phase to go through before it is ultimately sold to those Paris manufacturers who make “l’engrais de laine,” guano for worn-out clothes. This last phase it owes to the ingenuity of the brothers Meurt-de-Soif. This name, Meurt-de-Soif, as we are told by M. D’Anglemont, is not a name invented by the Paris wits. The family of Meurt-de-Soif (Die of Thirst) has its residence in the sixth arrondissement. Its especial occupation is the purchase of old garments in huge quantities, which are made temporarily to wear a new aspect, and then sold to the suburban beaux who sun themselves beyond the Barriers.