Though we are of a roving disposition and seldom remain long in one place, being always between two trains, in Paris we never thought of being dull, rushing about to theatres, concerts, etc. The weather was faultless; after the London fogs and damps the sky appeared to be especially blue. In the afternoons I was out on shopping expeditions. The “Grands Magasins du Louvre,” so well described by Zola in his novel _Au Bonheur des Dames_, especially attracted me. Before their huge stalls one might idle away many pleasant hours. There are such wonderful “Occasions” to be got, such lovely costumes, which fitted me like a glove but cost a tremendous lot; I devoured them with greedy eyes. Sergy is awfully generous in money matters, there is nothing in the way of dress, jewels, luxury that I couldn’t have if I wanted them; the instant I admired a dress, or a hat, he would say, “You shall have it.” Sergy is such a delightful husband! he is so good that I look on his shoulders every day for wings. One afternoon between two fittings in one of the numerous dressing-rooms in the “Louvre,” not much larger than a cupboard, I felt dreadfully fagged and entered the “Salon de Lecture” to rest a little. Turning over some French papers I came upon a paragraph entitled “Asia,” and was awfully indignant to see that it contained recent news from St. Petersburg. Shall we ever be considered as Europeans, I wonder? Walking one day on the Boulevards our eyes fell upon an inscription in large gilded letters “Korestchenko Magasin Russe.” In one of its windows we saw a manifesto of the recent Coronation of our Tzar, and were told that a Russian traveller had left that paper to be sold for 40fr. The address of a Russian restaurant was given to us in that shop, to which we immediately proceeded, wanting to enjoy the different dishes of our national cookery, the foretaste of which was delicious to me. But a great deception awaited us. We didn’t perceive any Russian element round about; the proprietor and the waiters were all French. Noticing our disappointment we were told that the cook was a Russian, and that was some comfort. We sat down at a table with a cloth that was not too clean, took up the menu-card and studied it through. It appeared very copious and made my mouth water. But alas! all the dishes that were served to us, beginning by the famous _stchi_, our national cabbage-soup, with scanty bits of over mature mutton, were horrid, and so was all the rest. We only lunched on a herring and a glass of milk. Hungry and cross we directed our steps to a neighbouring French restaurant, where this time the tasty menu did not deceive us.