“M.  Gerard’s sister, an old maid of forty-five, who takes every opportunity of declaring that she never intends to marry, and sighs every tine M. Dupont looks at her, is next to M. Moutonnet.  The old clerk of the laceman—­M.  Bidois—­who waits for Madame Moutonnet’s permission before he opens his mouth, and fills his glass every time she is not looking—­is placed at the side of Mademoiselle Cecile Gerard; who, though she swears every minute that she never will marry, and that she hates the men, is very ill pleased to have old M. Bidois for her neighbour, and hints pretty audibly that Madame Bernard monopolizes all the young beaux.  A young man of about twenty, tall, well-made, with handsome features, whose intelligent expression announces that he is intended for higher things than perpetually to be measuring yards of calico, is seated at the right hand of Eugenie.  That young man, whose name is Adolphe, is assistant in a fashionable warehouse where Madame Moutonnet deals; and as he always gives good measure, she has asked him to the fete of St Eustache.  And now we are acquainted with all the party who are celebrating the marriage-day of M. Moutonnet.”

We are not going to follow Paul de Kock in the adventures of all the party so carefully described to us.  Our object in translating the foregoing passage, was to enable our readers to see the manner of people who indulge in pic-nics in the wood of Romainville, desiring them to compare M. Moutonnet and his friends, with any laceman and his friends he may choose to fix upon in London.  A laceman as well to do in the world as M. Moutonnet, a grocer as rich as M. Dupont, and even a perfumer as fashionable as M. Gerard, would have a whitebait dinner at Blackwall, or make up a party to the races at Epsom—­and as to admitting such a humble servitor as M. Bidois to their society, or even the unfriended young mercer’s assistant, M. Adolphe, they would as soon think of inviting one of the new police.  Five miles from town our three friends would pass themselves off for lords, and blow-up the waiter for not making haste with their brandy and water, in the most aristocratic manner imaginable.  In France, or at least in Paul de Kock, there seems no straining after appearances.  The laceman continues a laceman when he is miles away from the little back shop; and even the laceman’s lady has no desire to be mistaken for the wife of a squire.  Madame Moutonnet seems totally unconscious of the existence of any lady whatever, superior to herself in rank or station.  The Red Book is to her a sealed volume.  Her envies, hatreds, friendships, rivalries, and ambitions, are all limited to her own circle.  The wife of a rich laceman, on the other hand, in England, most religiously despises the wives of almost all other tradesmen; she scarcely knows in what street the shop is situated, but from the altitudes of Balham or Hampstead, looks down with supreme disdain on the toiling creatures who stand all day