“Here, Antoine; let us be served here,” said Duchesne to the waiter; “I have already given orders about the dinner. And now, Burke, come out here. What think you of that view?” Scarcely had I set foot on the terrace, when I started back in mingled admiration and amazement. Beneath us lay the great city, in the mellow light of an evening in September. Close--so close as actually to startle--was the large dome of the Invalides shining like a ball of molten gold, the great courtyard in front dotted with figures; beyond, again, was the Seine, the surface flashing and flickering in the sunlight,--I traced it along to the Pont Neuf; and then my eye rested on Notre-Dame, whose tall, dark towers stood out against the pinkish sky, while the deep-toned bell boomed through the still air. I turned towards the Tuileries, and could see the guard of honor in waiting for the Emperor's appearing. In the gardens, hundreds were passing and repassing, or standing around the band which played in front of the pavilion. A tide of population poured across the bridges and down the streets, along which equipages and horsemen dashed impetuously onward. There was all the life and stir of a mighty city, its sounds dulled by distance, but blended into one hoarse din, like the far-off sea at night. “You don't know, Burke, that this was a favorite resort of the courtiers of the last reign. The gay young Gardes du Corps, the gallant youths of the royal household, constantly dined here. The terrace we now stand on once held a party who came at the invitation of no less a personage than him whom men call Louis the Eighteenth. It was a freak of the time to pronounce the Court dinners execrable: and they even go so far as to say that Marie Antoinette herself once planned a party here; but this I cannot vouch for.” At this moment Duchesne was interrupted by the entrance of the waiters who came to serve the dinner. I had not a moment left to admire the beauty and richness of the antique silver dishes which covered the table, when a gentle tap at the door attracted my attention. “Ha! Jacotot himself!” said Duchesne, as, rising hastily, he advanced to meet the new arrival. He was a tall, thin old man, much stooped by years, but with an air and carriage distinctly well bred; his white hair, brushed rigidly back, fastened into a queue behind, and his lace “jabot” and ruffles, bespoke him as the remnant of a date long past. His coat was blue, of a shade somewhat lighter than is usually worn. He also wore large buckles in his shoes, whose brilliancy left no doubt of their real value. Bowing with great ceremony, he advanced slowly into the room. “You are come to dine with us,--is it not so, Jacotot?” said Duchesne, as he still held his hand. “Excuse me, my dear chevalier; the Comte de Chambord and Edouard de Courcelles are below,--I have promised to join them.” “And is Courcelles here?”