Still, in spite of their confirmed Republicanism, the French people love Royalty—the Royalty of other nations. How often, outside national buildings that bear the democratic motto of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, have I heard shouts of: “Vive le Roi” and “Vive la Reine,” and admiring exclamations of: “Il est beau” and “Elle est gentille,” when a foreign monarch and his consort have visited Paris! How brilliantly has the city been adorned and illuminated; what a special shine on the helmets and breast-plates of the Republican Guard, and on the boots of the little, nervous boulevard policemen; what a constant playing of the august visitor’s own national anthem! In all countries a neighbouring sovereign is received cordially, elaborately. But it is in Republican France that a Royal visit is marked with the greatest pomp, circumstance and excitement. For the fact is that France, more than any other country, loves a fête—and the arrival in Paris of a King means flags, fairy lamps, festoons of paper flowers, fireworks. (The mere ascent of a rocket, the smallest shower of “golden rain” will throw the Parisian into ecstasies.) Also it delights the Frenchman to behold the uniforms, and the Stars and Orders of foreign nations—and he will stand about for hours to catch only a glimpse of the monarch. “Je l’ai vu, moi,” M. le Bourgeois declares proudly. Probably he has discerned no more than the nose, or the ear or the eyebrow of his Majesty. But he “salutes” the ear and the nose, he cheers the eyebrow: and the newspapers are full of the “distinction” and “graciousness” and “wit” of the visiting sovereign. Modern French novels and plays also call attention to the homage paid by Parisians to foreign Royalty. In that brilliant comedy, _Le Roi_, the mythical King of Cerdagne thus addresses a Parisienne: “Le séjour à Paris, c’est une chose qui nous délecte, nous autres pauvres rois, pauvres rois de province! On est si riant pour nous, ici! Pour aimer les rois, il n’y a vraiment plus que la France.” And the lady replies: “Mais elle est sincère, sire. Elle est amoureuse de vous. Elle flirte, elle fait la coquette—elle aime ça. La France est une Parisienne.” Most indisputably, France “flirts” with Foreign Royalty. Vast quantities of flowers, fresh and artificial, here, there and everywhere. All official buildings blazing and glittering with huge electrical devices. About ten o’clock at night—amidst what murmurs, exclamations, rapture!—fireworks on the ghost-haunted Ile de France. Then Republican and Municipal Guards massed on the Place de l’Opéra; and a dense crowd assembled to witness the arrival of his Majesty, M. le Président, MM. les Ambassadeurs, and hosts of distinguished personages, for the gala performance. All Paris turns out: stout M. le Bourgeois, students from the Latin Quarter, _midinettes_ in their best hats (I prefer them at noon, when Mesdemoiselles Marie and Yvonne are bareheaded), workmen in their Sunday suits, small clerks in pink