How is it that in the years that were earlier, I saw only fêtes and picnics? whilst now, when I accompany my Bosom's Lord on her periodical invasions of France-- Ah! yes, perhaps that accounts for it. I accompany Madame to the Printemps, the Belle Jardinière, the Louvre, and the Bon Marché, to interpret her commands, and I climb everlasting staircases like a little white mouse in a wheel. How I perspire--_dame!_ how I perspire! One day in a great magazine of Paris a small grease spot will be found upon the carpet, and someone will approach and say, "_Tiens donc_, this grease spot; what is it?" And they will call Mr. Stirlock Roames, the detective, and he will say, "Ah, it is the remains of a great dramatic critic. By my process of induction I perceive that he was a remarkable genius, and owned a yellow dog with a gift for solo leapfrog. He had one fault: he was too good. If you bring me a small piece of blotting-paper and a flat iron I will pick him up." And the grease spot will be removed to Westminster Abbey, and the readers of the _Clarion_ will wear sackcloth and ashes ever after. * * * * * Ah! _mon Dieu!_ These shops! "Ask the man," says She who must be obeyed, "to show me an accordeon-pleated plain bell-skirt with a deep hem and shallow basque of glycine velvet, shirred with a shallow round yoke of fine guise guipure, and broadly turned back lapels of material to match, and ample Marie Stuart sleeves of white satin mounted on lace, braceleted with a band of silver and pearl-embroidered satin slashed to the elbow." A college of professors of languages, armed with a library of technical dictionaries would be compelled to give it up. But I dare not. If I confessed myself unable to translate this wholesale order offhand into current Parisian, Madame would denounce me as an impostor on the spot. Therefore I translate it for her, but I work it on a system. Thus-- I turn nonchalantly to the shopman, and observe briskly in French, "Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, it might have been." Madame, who doesn't understand a word, nods her head in corroboration like a Chinese figure in a tea-shop window, and repeats "Wee-wee," which, as regards French, represents the whole of her little lot. Whatever the topic, whatever the emergency, she always says "Wee-wee." One would think that sometimes when she had laid it out in one speculation unsuccessfully, she would feel discouraged and deterred. But lor! nothing discourages that diminutive but remarkable woman. I have tried, and I know. So whenever, in Paris, opportunity occurs to put in a word, Madame sails in hopefully and spreads out her "Wee-wee" as confidently as if it were the ace of trumps. Whereupon the shopman looks perplexed. "_Mais, M'sieur_," says he, shrugging his shoulders in pretty apology, "_je ne comprends pas_."