“My dears,” said Mr. Cockayne, “we must husband our time.  To-day I propose we go, at eleven o’clock, to see the parade of the Guard in the Rue de Rivoli; from there (we shall be close at hand) we can see the Louvre; by two o’clock we will lunch in the Palais Royal.  I think it’s at five the band plays in the Tuileries gardens; after the band——­”

“But, dear papa, we want to look at the shops!” interposes the gentle Sophonisba.

“The what, my dear?  Here you are in the capital of the most polished nation on the face of the earth, surrounded by beautiful monuments that recall—­that are, in fact——­”

“Well!” firmly observes Sophonisba’s determined mamma; “you, Mr. Cockayne, go, with your Murray’s handbook, see all the antiquities, your Raphaels and Rubens, and amuse yourself among the cobwebs of the Hotel Cluny; we are not so clever—­we poor women; and while you’re rubbing your nose against the marbles in the Louvre, we’ll go and see the shops.”

“We don’t mind the parade and the band, but we might have a peep at just a few of the shops near the hotel, before eleven,” observes Sophonisba.

Cockayne throws up his eyes, and laments the frivolity of women.  He is left with one daughter (who is a blue) to admire the proportions of the Madeleine, to pass a rapturous hour in the square room of the Louvre, and to examine St. Germain l’Auxerrois, while the frivolous part of his household goes stoutly away, light-hearted and gay as humming-birds, to have their first look at the shops.

[Illustration:  A GROUP OF MARBLE “INSULAIRES.” So cold and natural they might be mistaken for life.]

I happen to have seen the shops of many cities.  I have peered into the quaint, small-windowed shops of Copenhagen; I have passed under the pendant tobacco leaves into the primitive cigar-shops of St. Sebastian; I have hobbled, in furs, into the shops of Stockholm; I have been compelled to take a look at the shops of London, Dublin, Edinburgh, Liverpool, and a host of other places; but perfect shopping is to be enjoyed in Paris only; and in the days gone by, the Palais Royal was the centre of this paradise.  Alas! the days of its glory are gone.  The lines of splendid boulevards, flanked with gorgeous shops and cafes; the long arcades of the Rue de Rivoli; and, in fine, the leaning of all that is fashionable, and lofty, and rich to the west, are the causes which have brought the destruction of the Palais Royal.  Time was when that quaint old square—­the Place-Royale in the Marais—­was mighty fashionable.  It now lies in the neglected, industrious, factory-crowded east—­a kind of Parisian Bloomsbury Square, only infinitely more picturesque, with its quaint, low colonnades.  You see the fine Parisians have travelled steadily westward, sloping slowly, like “the Great Orion.”  They are making their way along the Champs-Elysees to the Avenue de l’Imperatrice; and are constructing white stone aristocratic suburbs.