PROTOCOL leads the way to the _foyer_, where a totally different scene presents itself. This saloon is consecrated to persons in evening dress and dominoes, no costumed characters being admitted. This is the resort of all the "swells." Of course the blond children of Albion muster strongly, and, indeed, rather eclipse the native gentlemen with their severe hauteur and stately presence. Some of the ladies are in ball dresses, and hang on the arm of cavaliers; the majority are in that mysterious envelope which recalls AUBER'S charming comic opera, and employ themselves in puzzling, or, as they say, "intriguing," whatever acquaintances they recognise. PROTOCOL is immediately attacked by a tall black domino, whose eyes sparkle with a lustre no mask can hide. She whispers something in his ear which heightens his colour, and is gone before he can demand an explanation. Now, by the shades of RADCLIFFE and SIR WALTER, there is romance in the nineteenth century! Protocol, you must practise the guitar and learn a collection of serenades "arranged to suit a voice of moderate compass." "My dear fellow," replied the diplomatist, "I thought no one in the world knew what that lovely creature (I'm sure she's lovely) told me. Just fancy if she should turn out to be as noble and rich as she is beautiful. Hey?" Ah, PROTOCOL, as you say, just fancy! Why there she is again. MACHIAVEL is off in a trice and pursues the fair who flies from him. The Contemplative One entertains himself with hearing the adventures of young TWEEDLES, who has just joined the Lancers, and is away on a fortnight's leave. The poor child was induced to present a white domino with about five pounds' worth of _sucre de pommes_, which he afterwards saw her resell to the Marchand, to his infinite disgust. "You know," complained he, "it ain't the money I care for, but it's such a howwid baw to be an object of widicule to a dem Fwenchwoman. They widicule evewy one, and wespect nothing. No wonder they're always having wevolutions and upsetting weligion, and all that sort of thing. Let's make up a supper party at the _Café Anglais_. You know my cousin SWELLINGS SWELLINGS, and there's DE FAULTRE, who was in the 20th Black Guards, but wesides in Pawis now--plays _écarte_ vewy well--twemendous luck--always turning up the king. I hope PWOTOCOL will come and bwing his fwend." Another look at the lunatics, who are worse than ever. MOROK and the party in yellow satin trowsers excel themselves. The Cherokees shake their plumes and howl after a most horrid sort. The Pierrots redouble their "chaff," and make up in clamour what they want in wit. The Carnival is on its last legs, and does not spare them. It is still alive, and kicking. A few hours hence, and those pious persons will be repenting of their sins on cabbage and onions. Ah! as the lady with the camellias says, _Quelle belle chose que la religion!_