evening. Like La Fontaine's mule, Qui ne parlait incessament Que de sa mere la jument, they talk only of literature, their nurse, and speak disparagingly--it is a peculiarity of the place--of all the fellow-beings she has suckled. It is the typical French cafe, in the central _salon_ of which, in majestic repose, sits the _dame de comptoir_, who has a little gray moustache--the French like a little hair upon the upper lip of ladies--whilst overhead, forming a part of the extraordinary decoration, is a Madonna, goddess, angel--I can't say what--copied from one of the old masters in the palace of the Luxembourg. Gold-dust blown across a blue oval, with white-and-rose angels in the midst, shuts off the upward gaze in one of the other _salons_, whilst all around medallions large and small of heads and figures, male, female and infantile, with a variety of vine-wreathed Bacchuses and bow-drawing Cupids, which are considered especially fit to decorate cafes, cluster along the mouldings, encumber the panels or fill up the niches. Huge mirrors reflect the pea-green walls, the crystal chandeliers, the gilding, glass and divans; cats perambulate the apartments; people come and go--black, elegant fellows, with broad-rimmed hats, pretty canes, good clothes, good fits; absinthe-drinkers, with heavy jaws and dreamy, evil eyes. Billiard-balls are clicking in the back room; cards and dominoes are being played; cold-blooded, demoralized people lean forward, gossip and gesticulate--men who would man a barricade on occasion or put a sword-blade through a stomach.