(Countersigned) STUBBS.

This being completed, and the bill paid, they returned leisurely on foot to Paris, looking first at one object, then at another, so that the Countess Benvolio’s dinner-hour was passed ere they reached the Tuileries Gardens, where after resting themselves until it began to get dusk, and their appetites returned, they repaired to the Cafe de Paris to destroy them again.—­The lofty well-gilded salon was just lighted up, and the numberless lamps reflected in costly mirrors in almost every partition of the wall, aided by the graceful figures and elegant dresses of the ladies, interspersed among the sombre-coated gentry, with here and there the gay uniforms of the military, imparted a fairy air to the scene, which was not a little heightened by the contrast produced by Mr. Jorrocks’s substantial figure, stumping through the centre with his hat on his head, his hands behind his back, and the dust of the day hanging about his Hessians.

“Garsoon,” said he, hanging up his hat, and taking his place at a vacant table laid for two, “ge wouderai some wittles,” and, accordingly, the spruce-jacketed, white-aproned garcon brought him the usual red-backed book with gilt edges, cut and lettered at the side, like the index to a ledger, and, as Mr. Jorrocks said, “containing reading enough for a month.”  “Quelle potage voulez vous, monsieur?” inquired the garcon at last, tired of waiting while he studied the carte and looked the words out in the dictionary. “Avez-vous any potted lobster?” “Non,” said the garcon, “potage au vermicelle, au riz, a la Julienne, consomme, et potage aux choux.”  “Old shoe! who the devil do you think eats old shoes here?  Have you any mock turtle or gravy soup?” “Non, monsieur,” said the garcon with a shrug of the shoulders.  “Then avez-vous any roast beef?” “Non, monsieur; nous avons boeuf au naturel—­boeuf a la sauce piquante—­boeuf aux cornichons—­boeuf a la mode—­boeuf aux choux—­boeuf a la sauce tomate—­bifteck aux pommes de terre.”  “Hold hard,” said Jorrocks; “I’ve often heard that you can dress an egg a thousand ways, and I want to hear no more about it; bring me a beef-steak and pommes de terre for three.”  “Stop!” cried Mr. Stubbs, with dismay—­“I see you don’t understand ordering a dinner in France —­let me teach you.  Where’s the carte?” “Here,” said Mr. Jorrocks, “is ‘the bill of lading,’” handing over the book.—­“Garcon, apportez une douzaine des huitres, un citron, et du beurre frais,” said the Yorkshireman, and while they were discussing the propriety of eating them before or after the soup, a beautiful dish of little green oysters made their appearance, which were encored before the first supply was finished.  “Now, Colonel,” said the Yorkshireman, “take a bumper of Chablis,” lifting a pint bottle out of the cooler.  “It has had one plunge in the ice-pail and no more—­see what a delicate rind it leaves on the glass!” eyeing it as he