even made a slight movement of impatience
whenever a wrong domino was played. The
player observed the gesture, and said, "Perhaps
you would not have played so?"

"No," said the king, "I should not."

Some minutes later, the king again
manifested his disapproval; and the player then
remarked, with some ill humour, "You think I
have again played wrong?"

"Yes," replied his majesty. "I should have
played the double-five."

The player felt annoyed, and, shrugging his
shoulders, said, "You are a donkey!"

A moment after, the king rose, paid his reckoning,
and withdrew.

During this scene, the domino-player had
noticed that one of the waiters kept making
signs to him, which he could not understand;
and, after the king's departure, he asked for an
explanation.

"I merely wanted to let you know," said the
waiter, "that you were talking to the King of
the Belgians."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the player; "then I
am afraid I have not been over-polite." The
waiter seemed fully to concur in the opinion.

Boastful national talk, bragging patriotic
exclusiveness, contemptuous depreciation of
foreigners, betray narrow views and limited
experience. The French—Parisian men of
business particularly—are fond of stories about
travelling Englishmen, illustrating their
stupidity, pride, spleen, and eccentricity: as when
a child of Albion sends his valet to see a waterfall
for him, because he is too tired to go and
see it himself. One tale, considered capital, is
told of an Englishman who went to Geneva to
visit the lake. They put him into one of those
snug old-fashioned vehicles a char-à-coté, in
which you sit sideways as you do in an omnibus,
only you have no window behind you. Now, it
so happened that, on taking his seat in the car,
the Englishman's back was turned to the lake,
so that he drove completely round it without
once beholding it. Which trifling circumstance,
however, did not prevent his returning to
London (all Englishmen live in London),
enchanted with the Lake of Geneva. Lord and
Lady Allcash, in Fra Diavolo, belong to the
same category of personages. They are tolerated
on the stage, as conventional caricatures; but
are insupportable if patronised as legitimate
dramatis personæ by private talkers.

Some men talk little, and will not be forced
to talk more. Often, your lion, fed to perform,
refuses to play a single conversational trick.
Others are perfect fountains of talk; it rushes
out in an incessant stream. When once the
fire-plug of their utterance is drawn, everything
around is inundated, and there is no possibility
of stopping it. You may wait for ever, "dum
defluat amnis," while the river is emptying
itself. Such talk is necessarily desultory, touching
upon all things, and something else besides.
There are hosts who consider a supply of it
useful; it has at least the advantage of allowing
you to ponder your own private concerns.

In England, this variety of talker is mostly a
male; but Paris abounds with female specimens.
Of one, who has been photographed in
print, Madame de S., the photographer says
that the inside of her head is as muddled as the
outside is smooth. "A woman in gracefulness,
a man in acquired information, a Parisienne in
heedlessness and confusion of ideas, giddy and
serious, frivolous and grave, clever and absurd,
restless, capricious, this person is a perfect
summary of the chaos and convulsive starts of
the French political, social, and literary world.
She has long fits of silence; she listens. All
at once, she explodes like a bombshell. Her
conversation is then a soliloquy. Follow the thread
of her discourse, if you can; for her ideas are
shuffled and shaken in her head, like the cards
in a pack, or the numbers in a loto bag.

"Ah, here you are!" she says. "You are
come to-night. Much obliged; but I don't
want you. You may go home again. Your last
article was good for nothing. No, no; remain
where you are. What a piece of business, the
Pope's Encyclical! Monstrous! I have not read
it; but our philosopher says that it is more
improbable than Jack and the Bean Stalk.
German affairs are very entangled. Impossible to
get a box at the Gymnase for another fortnight.
They might as well have allowed the bishops to
have their say. How do you like my dress?
It was immensely admired yesterday at the
Admiralty. At the Hôtel Lambert it is thought
that the Poles may make a struggle in spring.
Mon Dieu, how badly your cravat is tied! You
are aware that the comte loses three hundred
thousand francs by the stockbroker who ran
away last Thursday. The duchess believes
Spain is ripe for revolution. That poor fellow's
death gave me a good fit of crying. He was
an immense ass, nevertheless. Once upon a
time, he wanted to marry me; I laughed so
heartily that he left the house without his hat.
He came to inquire for it, a twelvemonth afterwards.
I had given it to my coachman. Do you
travel this summer? I do not; have had enough
of it. Baden-Baden is always the same. When
shall we travel in balloons? Is Nadar really a
man of genius? Here is my carte de visite
which he took. How I am aged! Will you let
me speak? I cannot get a word in. Politics
are wearisome; everything is wearisome. I
have half a mind to go into a convent. Do not
suppose I am speaking seriously. I have been
to five balls this week. The foreign minister's
was a complete success. It seems the King of
Portugal is very popular. I am glad to hear it;
but it's all one to me. What a pity poor
Flandrin is dead! I wanted him to paint my
portrait. Will you take any tea? After all, it is
not so easy to remain a widow as you fancy. I
am very much courted. You don't believe it?
Word of honour! It is hard to choose. I
should have no objection to the baron. He is
rich, and only forty. But he makes too much
noise when he blows his nose; which is curious,
as he is not fond of music. Do you know why
Edgar left his wife? It is incomprehensible.
They married only a couple of years ago, and
adored each other. However, people cannot be