Of the monuments I have little worth recording. Interesting specimens there are of French sculpture of every age--all preserved by M. Lenoir from revolutionary Vandalism. The only thing, however, that I remember worth noticing, is the tomb of Louis XII. (I think), on which the corpses of himself and queen soon after death are laid out: the countenance of the king is expressive of great suffering. The horrid truth of this sculpture, aided by the colour of the marble--so completely that of a corpse--leads one to believe that it must by some means have been actually copied from nature. In a little yard, about twenty feet square, and surrounded by the high walls of the neighbouring houses, stands the Paraclete. Its situation is a sad drawback to the interest one might otherwise take in this specimen of ancient architecture, for in the history of the Castrato and his love I can take none. In wandering about the town, amongst other places we stumbled upon were the poultry or game market, and that of flowers--two opposite extremes. The first is a very handsome building on the Quai des Grand Augustins, and this being one of the days on which the game, &c., arrives, the quantity was prodigious; but the smell was more than we could stand, and obliged us to a very precipitate retreat; so, crossing to the Cité, we rambled on, and quite by accident found ourselves in the empire of Flora, redolent of mignonette and a thousand other odoriferous plants, and presenting a _coup d’œil_ not to be excelled: hortensias and camellias appeared quite common. The Parisian flower-sellers are adepts in making up nosegays, and, I believe, understand using them as the language of love like the Turks. Tired with our walk, we returned to Hardi’s, where, having made an excellent dinner, we separated; and here I am half asleep recording the day.