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THE PARTY OF PLEASURE.

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five-of them, and not the shadow of a man with them, which will not prevent them from laughing, or even from kicking up a row. These young women would fancy that they were not amused unless they made as much noise as possible. They laugh at every body they meet. Now they stop, and are in consultation about entering the traiteur’s. Do you remark how they look at the house? I am certain they are going to count the money they have, to see whether it is sufficient to pay fora good dinner. They are opening their reticules—taking out their purses—casting up the amount of the joint stock. Now for the result.— Oh! oh! it won’t do;—instead of going to the trai- teur’s they are going to the small public house opposite, because their funds enable them only to treat them- selves to an omelette-au-lard, washed down with wine of the landlord’s own growth. But they will make up for it in the evening, by coaxing the first fool that makes love to them to treat them to cakes and punch. During the rest of the week, as they are binding shoes or making buttonholes, they call to mind the pleasures they enjoy on Sundays! People must have a good stock either of philosophy or good temper, when a sin- gle day of pleasure suffices them for a whole week.— It is true that there are men of large fortune, and men in office, who have no amusement even one day out of theseven. Every thing then is balanced in this world. Ah! here are some of the inhabitants of the place — They are strong and robust, but devilish ugly. The female peasantry near Paris are seldom pretty. Their head-dress is not so graceful as that worn by the wo- men of Normandy and Franche-Comte. The flat caps sported by the two women yonder are hideous; and these females wear, besides, short-waisted gowns which prevent you even from perceiving whether they have good figures or not. The man, by whose arm they are holding, has a foraging cap on, to show that he belongs to the National Guard;—for ever since these good people have been taught their exercise, they think that, even at the plough-tail, they ought to have a military appearance. And why should this be— Surely it is not a greater crime to wear a smock frock than a soldier's uniform. But here comes a bedecked operative with his family. He is dragging a small wicker carriage containing his two youngest brats, and the provisions for the family dinner upon the grass. His wife brings up the rear. che carries nothing; for she is quite a burden to herself. She is as cross as Old Nick, grumbles the whole of the way, and only speaks to her husband to say: ‘Take care, now; you are dragging the carriage upon the stones, and you'll upset the children. How stupidly you draw it! and the poor man, who is dripping with per- spiration as he thus performs the part of a poodle dog, is persuaded that he enjoys himself on a Sunday, and toils like a stave during the week to procure this de- lightful recreation. Oh! here comes a cavalcade. — Look, Bellefeuille, it is really worth being sketched. — Are not those horsemen in otter-skin caps and ragged trowsers, admirable? As they have no straps under their shoes, their trowsers are up to their knees, and they exhibit their naked legs, which, on horseback, produces an excellent effect. On seeing those riding ragamuflins, one is almost tempted to say to them— ‘Would it not be better to buy stockings than to hire horses?” But they might answer—‘Meddle with what concerns you.’ And they would be in the right. I suppose it is for this very reason that people say nothing to them.”

ties to the attention of the artist—without, however, including himself—friend Grigou was throwing stones at the walnuts. This exercise reminded him of his youthful days, and he was delighted when ever he succeeded in bringing onedown. He had just thrown his — stone, and was picking up his eighth
 * ~ Whilst M. Barbeau was pointing out human oddi-

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walnut—which does not say much in favour of his skill—when a little man, with a tin badge upon his chest, a huge sword by his side, and upon his head a cocked hat, the point of which stood just above his nose, sprung upon poor Grigou, seized him by the col- lar, and cried, “Ah! have I caught you at last!—On Sunday too—and before every body. Come along to prison, Parisian.”

Grigou attempted first to free himself from the little man's grasp, then to excuse himself; but the man in authority, who was always half drunk on week days, and wholly so on Sundays, would not listen to reason, but kept good hold of his prey. At the same instant several peasants came up and joined in abusing Gri- gou. The French peasantry are alw delighted when they can inflict annoyance or vexation upon townspeople, and they enjoyed the distress of poor Grigou, nearly beside himself with terror at the thought of being sent to prison. These clodhoppers fancy that the inhabitants of Paris never visit them but to spoil and ravage their fields; and yet these labourers —these rustics, who are so often represented as en- dowed with every domestic virtue, are for the most part cunning, selfish, envious, and addicted to slander and backbiting. What would they do if the inhabi- tants of cities did not purchase their produce? No doubt the latter would be equally embarrassed, if the tillers of the soil did not cultivate it for their use.— But what does that prové? Why, that we are all de- pendent upon each other, and ought, therefore, to be actuated towards one another by kindlier feelings.

Grigou’s lamentations having reached the ears of the party upon the grass, M. Barbeau rose and wad- dled to his assistance. Near the walnut-tree he be- held his poor friend in durance vile. In surprise, he asked twenty questions in a breath, without giving time for an answer to one of them; but, on perceiv- ing that the individual who held Grigou by the collar was a garde-champetre,* he guessed the truth.

“What are you going to do?” said he, addressing the police officer. “You surely don’t mean to puta man in prison for a walnut.”

“Sir, the fact is”

“T see well enough what the fact is. making such a stir about?”

“Oh! sir, when”

“Ts ita fine you want? Well, we'll pay it. are five francs; take them and go to the devil.”

The garde-champetre spurned the offer, because there were too many witnesses about him; and the peasants, one and all, cried out “Take him before the Mayor of Romainville; these Parisian rascals come here to rob us.”

“You are glad, however,” said M. Barbeau “when these same Parisians come and buy your milk and your potatoes.”

“Oh! that gammon won't do. If they did’nt buy ‘em, why we should use them ourselves—that’s all. the difference.”

“You would, would you? and pray how would you buy shoes, and clothes, and wine; and how would you pay your taxes?”

The peasants had nothing to reply to this, but set up the shout, “Take him before the Mayor!—take him before the Mayor!” And the garde-champetre, whose heart was beginning to relent at the sight of Grigou’s rueful countenance and tearful eyes, shut out compassion from his bosom, fiercely cocked his hat, and dragged his prisoner along.

“Well, we'll all go before the Mayor,” said M. Barheau.

“What is the matter!” asked Madame Barbeau then just arrived with the rest of the party.

“Qh! nothing,” her husband replied; “only weare

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 * Similar to a police constable in a city —Tr.