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112 at home, and all seem to own a share in the club. There is a free-and-easy way with those who frequent clubs, and a license given there, that is unknown in the drawing-room of the private mansion. I met the gentleman at the club at the appointed hour, and after his writing my name in the visitors' book, we proceeded to the dining-room, where we partook of a good dinner.

We had been in the room but a short time, when a small man, dressed in black, with his coat buttoned up to the chin, entered the saloon, and took a seat at the table hard by. My friend, in a low whisper, informed me that this person was one of the French refugees. He was apparently not more than thirty years of age, and exceedingly good-looking,—his person being slight, his feet and hands very small and well-shaped, especially his hands, which were covered with kid gloves, so tightly drawn on that the points of the finger-nails were visible through them. His face was mild and almost womanly in its beauty, his eyes soft and full, his brow open and ample, his features well defined, and approaching to the ideal Greek in contour; the lines about his mouth were exquisitely sweet, and yet resolute in expression; his hair was short—his having no moustache gave him nothing of the look of a Frenchman; and I was not a little surprised when informed that the person before me was Louis Blanc. I could scarcely be persuaded to believe that one so small, so child-like in stature, had taken a prominent part in the revolution of 1848. He held in his hand a copy of La Presse, and as soon as he