The race-course at Longchamps enjoys advantages of situation and surroundings superior, beyond all question, to those of any other in the world.  The approaches to it from Paris are by an uninterrupted succession of the most charming drives—­the Champs Elysees, the grand avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, and finally through the lovely shaded alleys of the Bois.  Arrived at the Cascade, made famous by the attempt of Berezowski upon the life of the czar in 1867, the eye takes in at a glance the whole of the vast space devoted to the race-course, overlooked to the right by a picturesque windmill and an ancient ivy-mantled tower, and at the farther extremity by the stands for spectators.  To the left the view stretches over the rich undulating hills of S[\e]vres and of Meudon, strewn with pretty villas and towers and steeples, and rests in the dim distance upon the blue horizon of Les Verrieres.

The elegant central stand or tribune, of brick and stone, is reserved for the chief of the state.  In the time of the last presidency it was almost always occupied by the marshal, a great lover of horses, and by his little court; but his successor, M. Grevy, whose sporting propensities are satisfied by a game of billiards or a day’s shooting with his pointers, generally waives his privilege in favor of the members of the diplomatic corps.

The stand to the left of the track is the official tribune, very gay and attractive in the days of the Empire, when it was filled by the members of the municipal council of Paris and their families, but to-day rather a blot upon the picture, the wives of the Republican aediles belonging to a lower—­though, in this case, a newer—­stratum of society than did their imperial predecessors.  The Jockey Club reserves for itself the first stand to the right, from which all women are rigorously excluded.  The female element, however, is represented upon the lower ranges of benches, though the ladies belonging to the more exclusive circles of fashion prefer a simple chair upon the gravel of the paddock.  It is there, at the foot of the club-stand, that may be seen any Sunday in spring, expanding under the rays of the vernal sun, the fresh toilettes that have bloomed but yesterday, or it may be this very morning, in the conservatories of Worth and Laferriere.  The butterflies of this garden of sweets are the jaunty hats whose tender wings of azure or of rose have but just unfolded themselves to the light of day.  My figure of “butterfly hats” has been ventured upon in the hope that it may be found somewhat newer than that of the “gentlemen butterflies” which the reporters of the press have chased so often and so long that the down is quite rubbed from its wings, to say nothing of the superior fitness of the comparison in the present case.  In fact, the gentlemen do but very rarely flutter from flower to flower within the sacred confines of the paddock, but are much more apt to betake themselves in crowds to the less showy parterre of the betting-ground, where, under the shadow of the famous chestnut tree, such enormous wagers are laid, and especially do they congregate in the neighborhood of the tall narrow slates set up by such well-known bookmakers as Wright, Valentine and Saffery.