The supper at the Hotel de Paris was the best-got-up thing of the kind I had sat down to for some months. We began with soup--rather flimsy stuff, but pretty good--then _bouilli_, followed by _filet-de-bœuf_, with cabbage, carrots, turnips, and onions; after that came what the landlord called a “god-dam rosbif,” with green peas, and the whole wound up with a salad of raw cabbage, a cup of good coffee, and cognac. I did impartial justice to every department, and rose from the table powerfully refreshed. The company were nearly all French miners, among whom was a young Frenchman whom I had known in San Francisco, and whom I hardly recognized in his miner’s costume. We passed the evening together in some of the gambling-rooms, where we heard pretty good music; and as there were no sleeping quarters to be had at the house where I dined, I went to an American hotel close to it. It was in the usual style of a boarding-house in the mines, but it was a three-decker. All round the large sleeping apartment were three tiers of canvas shelves, partitioned into spaces six feet long, on one of which I laid myself out, choosing the top tier in case of accidents. Next door was a large thin wooden building, in which a theatrical company were performing. They were playing Richard, and I could hear every word as distinctly as if I had been in the stage-box. I could even fancy I saw King Dick rolling his eyes about like a man in a fit, when he shouted for “A horse! a horse!” The fight between Richard and Richmond was a very tame affair; they hit hard while they were at it, but it was too soon over. It was one-two, one-two, a thrust, and down went Dick. I heard him fall, and could hear him afterwards gasping for breath and scuffling about on the stage in his dying agonies. After King Richard was disposed of, the orchestra, which seemed to consist of two fiddles, favored us with a very miscellaneous piece of music. There was then an interlude performed by the audience, hooting, yelling, whistling, and stamping their feet; and that being over, the curtain rose, and we had Bombastes Furioso. It was very creditably performed, but, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, it did not sound to me nearly so absurd as the tragedy. Some half-dozen men, the only occupants of the room besides myself, had been snoring comfortably all through the performances, and now about a dozen more came in and rolled themselves on to their respective shelves. They had been at the theater, but I am sure they had not enjoyed it so much as I did. CHAPTER XI ON THE TRAIL