_Mens conscia recti_--I snap my fingers at the disgrace. Leaving Sir Augustus, I accompanied Bell to his pretty lodging in the Rue Mont Blanc. I don’t know who the people are, but it is an uncommonly genteel, well-furnished, well-appointed house. A young gentleman there is who visits Bell occasionally, and a young lady who serenades him (if I may so apply the term) continually. She touches the piano well, has a musical voice, and sings with taste. “L’Exile” is the favourite just now, a pretty song, which, from so often hearing there, I shall always henceforward associate with Bell’s nicely-furnished apartment, and the little pleasure-ground, of some thirty or forty feet square, with one or two acacias in it. Frazer, too, has very handsome rooms in the Hotel du Nord, richly furnished, with green silk window-curtains, &c. &c. Sir Edward Kerrison and old Platoff also live there. Passed the remainder of this morning lounging about the Boulevard, as much amused as on the first day. All the fun, crowd, &c., I observe, is confined to the right side going up from the Rue Royale; on the left there is comparatively nobody, except, perhaps, at the Porte St Denis and St Martin, through which (or rather by which) a crowd is continually setting, and one is deafened by the importunate clamours of fifty cabriolet-drivers, all calling at once, “Voiture, Monsieur--Voiture?” “St Denis, Monsieur?” “Memorency, Monsieur?” “Garges, Monsieur?” “Arnouville?” &c. &c. These fellows are most active rogues, and their carriages very convenient, and far more agreeable than the fiacres; and that is the opinion of the public in general, I presume, from seeing one fiacre plying for ten cabriolets or coucous, or whatever name they go by. The coachmen of the former are so well aware of this, that they generally are dozing on their boxes, giving themselves no trouble in looking for customers. Perhaps, however, this may arise from their being only servants, whilst the others are themselves the proprietors of the vehicles they drive. Although conscious that these _portes_ are in reality triumphal arches, yet I never pass them without experiencing something of the same feeling with which one would view the magnificent bridge built by Philip II. over the dry bed of the Manzanares if ignorant of the impetuous floods to which that river is liable. The Boulevard presented if anything a more busy, noisy scene than usual. The Turk I found with an attentive and apparently much interested audience, whom he was haranguing with vociferations and gesticulations truly astounding. In vain I tried to catch the purport of his harangue--the curious _badauds_ were packed so close, and so firmly maintained their ground, that it was impossible to approach one inch into the circle. I lounged on and admired the beautiful Fontaine de Bondy, or de Lions, I know not which it is called, but its sheets of falling water are singular, and I think it a beautiful fountain.