This evening we are speaking of teeth, and Victor says that he does not like people to think a great deal about them: sometimes marriages are broken off in Paris if the young lady wants a tooth, just as they are in the country if the bride's father can only give two cows instead of three, as he had promised.

There are no general directories here. Victor says that you must pay eight francs a year for having your name inserted in one. There is, too, but little advertising in the papers. But there is one kind of notice in them which we do not often have at home. Victor has had two hundred little circulars printed, giving notice of the birth of his little girl. In sending them he puts them into a band, like small circulars. He says that it would take two thousand for all his friends, but that it will be in the papers, and they can see it there.

Wednesday, May 29th.-In my early morning walk I see another young woman in white. How long are these white dresses for religious festivals to continue? I hear military music from the stone barrack; a young man says that it is from the musical school. "At what time," I ask, "must the soldiers get up?" "At five." "To do what?" With a shrug he answers, "Nothing at all.”

A young

I enter one of the large churches where the young people are beginning to gather for confirmation. There is a heavy, unpleasant smell like dead flowers. woman in white is putting off her black shoes to put on white ones. A nice-looking man of about forty is at his devotions; and I see guardians of the peace, but not at prayer. They are to preserve order. Here comes a troop

of girls in white, escorted by a nun,-a fine-looking person; here is a boy with white cravat and pantaloons, and the white ribbon tied round his arm; one woman in black accompanies a young woman in white, whose hair in front of her veil seems artificially curled, the veil being fastened on top of the head and falling down behind. The elder woman arranges her dress, and smiles as if she were going to the theatre.

I have spoken of Miss Fleutet, teacher in the communal school,―the one who seemed piously inclined. To-day she is so polite as to call upon me. Her salary is seventeen hundred and ten francs a year,—three hundred and forty dollars, and she has taken an orphan-girl to bring up. The mother was a widow and a teacher, and, dying, left five children. At first Miss Fleutet only took the little girl for a limited period, but she began to love her. "She is sweet," she says. "She loves me well, too." I am astonished that a person so situated should assume such a burden. "And suppose you fall sick?" I ask. "I will go to a hospital," she answers with spirit. It was a priest who suggested this course to her. "He knew what I needed," she says, "and my little girl shall never suffer from loneliness as I have done. I cannot have so handsome a dress, but I have the company of my little girl, who is not bright, but she is sweet, has tact, has heart." Miss Fleutet has received a holiday to-day from her principal, in order to accompany a young girl to confirmation ; and her little girl wanted a cake at déjeuner, because it is a festival. Miss F. subscribes for a small paper for her, called The French Doll, and she allows her to read it to-day, also, because it is a festival. "When she does well, I pay her," she says; "and when she does ill, she

pays me." I offer her a trifle to get something for the child, but she refuses it. She has had such offers before, but the little girl is her own charge. When the mother's health was failing she was allowed to go to Algiers, but this did not restore her. Miss F. thinks that she may have suffered from insufficient nourishment,—a widow, the mother of five children, upon such a slender salary. Of the four brothers, the eldest is now able to support himself, and a rich priest took the three others,—the same who suggested that Miss Fleutet should take the girl. She says that he belongs to one of the most ancient families in France. He first took the three sons, and has since established an asylum for fifty orphan-boys. He has also founded an orphanage of two hundred young girls, for on the death of his father he came into his fortune.

CHAPTER IX.

Thursday, May 30th.—Ascension-day, and Victor has a holiday, which sets me at liberty; also the employés of the post-office have half holiday, so it is well that I mailed a certain note yesterday. I go to the omnibus-office to get conveyance to the Exposition. A little party in the office I judge to be my countrymen; for the lady, who is social with the man in charge, speaks better Massachusetts or Connecticut than French. This being a holiday, there is a crowd at the Exposition. To get into the restaurant Duval we form a queue, and after I get in the bar is shut down.

Friday, May 31st.-I have several times visited a great church in Paris, to which I will now give an assumed name,

and call it St. Christopher. In my notes I speak in this manner: "You may go into this church to see the ceremonies and to take notes, but you will probably leave with the feeling of reverence, of devotion increased." But my experience this morning is different. It was before seven when I got to the church. The "Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity," cut on a great stone on each side of the entrancedoor, seems to be something incongruous. Early as I am, there is some one within the church,—a great man in a black-velvet cap, a dark-blue frock-coat, and trousers trimmed with braid like gold. I inquire of him when this inscription was put upon the church. "Don't know,— on ne sait pas." "Was it not at the time of this last republic ?" "Yes." "And all these churches," I add, "belong to the state?" "Yes." "And does the state pay for all repairs?" "Don't know; but as to this liberty, equality, and fraternity, they are lies! I say it, and I sustain it and I maintain it!" I tell him that I am from a republic,-from the United States. He is willing to admit that that is well, but he repeats his former saying, "They are lies! I say it, and I sustain it and I maintain it!" Going away and returning, he asks: "You occupy yourself with politics?" Yes; in my country some women do." Then I understand him to say, "But women do not serve as soldiers: women are nothing." I tell him about States in our Union where women have voted and served on juries. He says that there are no true republicans in France, although they talk about republicanism. "Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity! With whom are you willing to make yourself equal? With people who suit you?" I tell him that there are Catholic republicans in Switzerland. As he goes away and returns again, I endeavor to explain something I have said; but he says,-and I think that he does not look with

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favor upon my note-book,-" Madame, you occupy yourself with things that you should not. Go and see Mr. the Curé of St. Christopher's. He will tell you things; but, as for us, it is not for us to inform you. Go and see Mr. the Curé." He comes again, and says that if I wish information there is a priest who speaks English. There is now going to be mass. But this gentleman will inform me. I tell him, glad to escape, that I told the French gentleman with whom I board that I would be back to take coffee. When I am outside the door, there comes forth another splendid man (though neither is young); they are so much finer specimens than most of the soldiers. This second man has a feather-duster in his hand, and wears a woven woollen jacket, but a velvet cap like the former. Seeing the former so handsomely dressed, I did not know but he was some dignitary, but now I suspect that he is not. And as to the idea that women are nothing because they are not soldiers, what, then, are priests? When I return to our apartments, I tell Victor that when he wants to be stirred up I will tell him what I have heard; and when I have begun, he says: "Those are Savoyards; they are Swiss, who march before the priest in processions. If I had been talking to him, I should have kept my hand in my pocket for fear he would steal. They have all those apish tricks, because they are paid by the curé. And if I had heard him I should have said, 'The liar is in your skin.'"

"He said that there are no republicans here," I added. "Oh, you mustn't go the church for republicans. Go to the church for hypocrites."

Walking out later in the day, I inquire the way of a lad, and also tell him that I have seen a young lady in white,

is there anything at church to-day? He answers promptly