The power formerly intrusted to the sentinel, wherever there was one stationed, of refusing the entrée to all persons not properly dressed, gave occasion once to a saucy outbreaking of French wit in one of the National Guard, which was amusing enough. This civic guardian was stationed at the gates of a certain Mairie on some public occasion, with the usual injunction not to permit any person "mal-mise" to enter. An incroyable presented himself, not dressed in the fashion, but immoderately beyond it. The sentinel looked at him, and lowered his piece across the entrance, pronouncing in a voice of authority—
"You cannot enter."
"Not enter?" exclaimed the astonished beau, looking down at the exquisite result of his laborious toilet; "not enter?—forbid me to enter, sir?—impossible! What is it you mean? Let me pass, I say!"
The imperturbable sentinel stood like a rock before the entrance: "My orders are precise," he said, "and I may not infringe them."
"Precise? Your orders precise to refuse me?"
"Oui, monsieur, précis, de refuser qui que ce soit que je trouve mal-mis."
LETTER XV.
Street Police.—Cleaning Beds.—Tinning Kettles.—Building Houses.—Loading Carts.—Preparing for the Scavenger.—Want of Drains.—Bad Pavement.—Darkness.
My last letter was of the Tuileries Gardens; a theme which furnished me so many subjects of admiration, that I think, if only for the sake of variety, I will let the smelfungus vein prevail to-day. Such, then, being my humour,—or my ill-humour, if you will,—I shall indulge it by telling you what I think of the street-police of Paris.