Evening approaches:  when the Boulevards put on their gayest and most fascinating livery.  Then commences the bustle of the Ice Mart:  in other words, then commences the general demand for ices:  while the rival and neighbouring caffes of TORTONI and RICHE have their porches of entrance choked by the incessant ingress and egress of customers.  The full moon shines beautifully above the foliage of the trees; and an equal number of customers, occupying chairs, sit without, and call for ices to be brought to them.  Meanwhile, between these loungers, and the entrances to the caffes, move on, closely wedged, and yet scarcely in perceptible motion, the mass of human beings who come only to exercise their eyes, by turning them to the right or to the left:  while, on the outside, upon the chaussee, are drawn up the carriages of visitors (chiefly English ladies) who prefer taking their ice within their closed morocco quarters.  The varieties of ice are endless, but that of the Vanille is justly a general favourite:  not but that you may have coffee, chocolate, punch, peach, almond, and in short every species of gratification of this kind; while the glasses are filled to a great height, in a pyramidal shape, and some of them with layers of strawberry, gooseberry, and other coloured ice—­looking like pieces of a Harlequin’s jacket—­are seen moving to and fro, to be silently and certainly devoured by those who bespeak them.  Add to this, every one has his tumbler and small water-bottle by the side of him:  in the centre of the bottle is a large piece of ice, and with a tumbler of water, poured out from it, the visitor usually concludes his repast.  The most luxurious of these ices scarcely exceeds a shilling of our money; and the quantity is at least half as much again as you get at a certain well-known confectioner’s in Piccadilly.

It is getting towards MIDNIGHT; but the bustle and activity of the Boulevards have not yet much abated.  Groups of musicians, ballad-singers, tumblers, actors, conjurors, slight-of-hand professors, and raree-shew men, have each their distinct audiences.  You advance.  A little girl with a raised turban (as usual, tastefully put on) seems to have no mercy either upon her own voice or upon the hurdy-gurdy on which she plays:  her father shews his skill upon a violin, and the mother is equally active with the organ; after “a flourish”—­not of “trumpets”—­but of these instruments—­the tumblers commence their operations.  But a great crowd is collected to the right.  What may this mean?  All are silent; a ring is made, of which the boundaries are marked by small lighted candles stuck in pieces of clay.  Within this circle stands a man—­apparently strangled:  both arms are extended, and his eyes are stretched to their utmost limits.  You look more closely—­and the hilt of a dagger is seen in his mouth, of which the blade is introduced into his stomach!  He is almost breathless, and ready to faint—­but