"Manquant, au second rang de ce râtelier d'armes, environ quatre-vingt carabines à rouet, _ornées d'incrustation d'ivoire et de nacre, dans le genre de celles du premier rang_. Toutes celles qu'on voit ici ont servi dans les journées de Juillet, et ont été rendues après. Les personnes qui auraient encore celles qui manquent sont priées de les rapporter." There is such a superlative degree of _bonhomie_ in the belief that because all the ordinary muskets which were seized upon by the July patriots were returned, those also adorned with "incrustations d'ivoire et de nacre" would be returned too, that it was quite impossible to restrain a smile at it. Such unwearied confidence and hope deserve a better reward than, I fear, they will meet: the "incrustations d'ivoire et de nacre" are, I doubt not, in very safe keeping, and have been converted, by the patriot hands that seized them, to other purposes, as dear to the hearts they belonged to as that of firing at the Royal Guard over a barricade. Our doctrinaire friend himself confessed that he thought it was time these naïve notices should be removed. It was, I think, in the course of this excursion that our friend gave me an anecdote which I think is curious and characteristic. Upon some occasion which led to a private interview between Charles Dix and himself, some desultory conversation followed the discussion of the business which led to the audience. The name of Malesherbes, the intrepid defender of Louis Seize, was mentioned by our friend. The monarch frowned. "Sire!"--was uttered almost involuntarily. "Il nous a fait beaucoup de mal," said the king in reply to the exclamation--adding with emphasis, "Mais il l'a payé par sa tête!" LETTER LXX. Concert in the Champs Elysées.--Horticultural Exhibition.--Forced Flowers.--Republican Hats.--Carlist Hats.--Juste-Milieu Hats.--Popular Funeral. The advancing season begins to render the atmosphere of the theatres insupportable, and even a crowded soirée is not so agreeable as it has been; so last night we sought our amusement in listening to the concert "en plein air" in the Champs Elysées. I hear that you too have been enjoying this new delight of al-fresco music in London. France and England are exceedingly like the interlocutors of an eclogue, where first one puts forth all his power and poetry to enchant the world, and then the other "takes up the wondrous tale," and does his utmost to exceed and excel, and so go on, each straining every nerve to outdo the other.