"Louis Dixhuite, Louis dixhuite,
We have licked all your armies and sunk all your fleet."

[291]Luckily the words are not intelligible to the gaping Parisians, who generally, upon hearing the "Louis Dixhuite," took for granted the song was an ode in honour of the Bourbons, and grinned approbation. It is quite ridiculous, Paris cannot know itself. Where are the French? Nowhere. All is English; English carriages fill the streets, no other genteel Equipages are to be seen. At the Play Boxes are all English. At the Hotels, Restaurations—in short, everywhere—John Bull stalks incorporate. I see an Englishman with his little red book, the Paris guide, in one hand and map in the other, with a parcel of ragged boys at his heels pestering him for money. "Monsieur, c'est moi," who am ready to hold your stick. "Monsieur, c'est moi," who will call your coach.

About the Thuilleries, indeed, and here and there, a few "bien poudréd" little old men, "des bons Papas du Temps passé," may be seen dry as Mummies and as shrivelled, with their ribbons and Croix St. Louis, tottering about. They are good, staunch Bourbons, ready, I daresay, to take the field "en voiture" for once, when taunted by the Imperial officers for being too old and decrepid to lead troops; an honest emigrant Marquis replied that he did not see why he should not command a regiment and lead it on "dans son Cabriolet."

We have been unfortunate in not arriving soon enough to be present at the Duke of Wellington's Balls. At the last a curious circumstance took place. (You may rely upon it's being true.) Word[292] was brought to him that the house was in danger from fire. He went down, and in a sort of subterranean room some cartridges were discovered close to a lamp containing a great quantity of oil, and it was evident they had been placed there with design. The first report was that barrels of gunpowder had been found, and strange associations were whispered as to Guy Fawkes and Louis XVIII. being one and the same; but the powder was not sufficient to do any great mischief, and the general idea is that had it exploded, confusion would have ensued, the company would have been alarmed, the ladies would have screamed and fled to the door and street, where parties were in full readiness and expectations of Diamonds, &c....

We stay over Monday, for there is a grand Review on the Boulevards. We have seen Cuirassiers and Lancers shining in the sun and fluttering their little banner in the air. The Bourbons, who are determined to root out every vestige of the past, are now stripping the Troops of the Uniform which remind the wearers of battles fought and cities won, and re-clothing them in the white dress of the "ancien Régime," which is wretchedly ugly. They know best what they are about, and they certainly have a people to deal with unlike the rest of the world, but were I a Bourbon, I should be cautious how I proceeded in demolishing everything which reminded the people of their recent glory. Luckily the column on the Place Vendôme[293] has as yet escaped the Goths, and its bronze basso reliefs are still the pride of Paris.

Edward Stanley to Louisa Stanley.

July 13, 1816.

Days in Paris are like lumps of barley sugar, sweet to the taste and melting rapidly away.... We have now seen theatres, shows, gardens, museums, palaces, and prisons. Aye, Louisa, we have been immured within the walls of La Force, and that from inclination! not necessity.

We procured an order to see Bruce,[121] and after some shuttlecock sort of work, sending and being sent from office to office and Préfet to Préfet, at length we received our order of admission.

In this order our persons are described; the man put me down "sourcils gris." "Mais, Monsieur," said I, "they will never admit me with that account." He looked at me again, "Ah! vos cheveux sont gris, mais pour les sourcils, non pas, vous avez raison," and altering them to "noirs," he sent me about my business.