November 27th.
DEAR M.,—Baron Haussmann took me in to déjeuner this morning. The Baron is the Préfet de Paris. He is very tall, bulky, and has an authoritative way of walking ahead and dragging his partner after him, which makes one feel as if one was a small tug being swept on by a man-of- war! I wondered if the Cent Gardes noticed how I tripped along, taking two steps to his one, until he reached his seat at the table, into which he dropped with a sigh of relief.
His body in profile defies any one's looking around the corner, so to speak. I could only see at intervals Marquise Chasselouplobat's shapely elbows and hands. Our conversation turned on the new improvements he intends to make in Paris. He asked me how I liked the boulevard of his name, just completed.
"I like it," I answered, "though it has deprived us of a good part of our garden." (It had cut off just half of it.)
"It brings you nearer the Bois," he added. "I hope the Government paid you well for it."
"I suppose the Government thinks it did; but our croquet-ground is gone forever."
"Forever!" he repeated. "Where do you play now?"
"Sometimes at the Austrian embassy."
"Is its garden large enough for that?"
I answered, "It is not large enough for a real croquet-ground; but the ambassador is such an ardent player that he has arranged a place under the trees where we play—sometimes at night with lamps on the ground."