Paris is the dream of all provincialists. Rich and poor want to come here, at least once,--the first to enjoy life, the second to try to make their fortunes. No one can imagine the disappointment of these visitors, since each one has had his own peculiar ideas of the metropolis. For some, Paris is an immense succession of palaces; for others, the houses are built of gold and precious stones. Paris never comes up to the ideas strangers have formed of it. In order to love and admire this great city, one must become acquainted with it. The inhabitants of the South, particularly, are greatly disappointed on arriving at the capital. Their imagination, more lively than that of the people of the North, embellishes the metropolis in a thousand different ways. As if to punish them for their imaginary castles, accident has always made them enter the city at its homeliest point. Before the railroad was built, the people of the South arrived at the Barrière d’Enfer. To them Paris presented a sorry aspect; to those who arrive now it presents no aspect at all. Eusebe, on leaving the depot, walked straight ahead, valise in hand. He saw the Seine, which he thought narrow. Then he came to a bridge, which he thought shabby. But all at once his face brightened up with an expression of delight: he was opposite the garden of the Museum. “At last,” said he, “here is something worth looking at. What a beautiful, what an immense, garden! How admirably it is cultivated! It is unfortunate that a sentinel is placed at the gate to keep people from entering: it is ridiculous. But it is said there are a great many thieves in this immense city.” Eusebe approached the soldier who guarded the entrance to the garden, and said,-- “Be so kind as to tell me the name of this magnificent enclosure.” “Enclosure!” repeated the soldier: “don’t know.” “I ask you the name of this enclosure.” “Enclosure! Not known to the regiment.” “I beg your pardon,” said Eusebe, mildly: “I simply want to know the name of this garden that you guard so well.” “Ah! ah!” replied the son of Mars. “Should express yourself _categorically_, young man. That is called the Garden of Plants.” (Jardin des Plantes.) “Thank you,” said Eusebe; but, as he turned to go, he made this reflection, which seemed to him sensible:-- “Garden of Plants: that is not a name. All gardens have plants; gardens give birth to plants, and a garden without plants would not be a garden. This soldier has evidently deceived me.” Seeing an old man sitting on a bench enjoying the autumn sun, Eusebe, approaching him, took off his hat respectfully, and said,-- “I am a stranger, sir. Excuse me for troubling you, but I should like to know the name of this superb park.” “I am glad, sir,” said the old man, kindly, “that I am able to tell you. The grounds that you see yonder are the garden of the king.” “Of the emperor, you mean to say.”