Happy the ortolans whom destiny puts into Potel’s plate of honour!  Most fortunate of geese, whose liver is fattened by a slow fire to figure presently here with the daintiest and noblest of viands!  The pig who hunts the truffle would have his reward could he know that presently the fragrant vegetable would give flavour to his trotter!  And is it not a good quarter of an hour’s amusement every afternoon to watch the gourmets feasting their eyes on the day’s fare?  And the gamins from the poor quarters stare in also, and wonder what those black lumps are.

Opposite Potel’s is a shop, the like of which we have not, nor, we verily believe, has any other city.  It is the show-store of the far-famed Algerian Onyx Company.  The onyx is here in great superb blocks, wedded with bronze of exquisite finish, or serving as background to enamels of the most elaborate design.  Within, the shop is crammed with lamps, jardinieres, and monumental marbles, all relieved by bronzes, gold, and exotics.  The smallest object would frighten a man of moderate means, if he inquired its price.  There is a flower shop not far off, but it isn’t a shop, it’s a bower.  It is close by a dram-shop, where the cab-men of the stand opposite refresh the inner man.  It represents the British public-house.  But what a quiet orderly place it is!  The kettle of punch—­a silver one—­is suspended over the counter.  The bottles are trim in rows; there are no vats of liquid; there is no brawling; there are no beggars by the door—­no drunkards within.  It is so quiet, albeit on the Boulevard, not one in a hundred of the passers-by notice it.  The lordly Cafe du Cardinal opposite is not more orderly.

Past chocolate shops, where splendidly-attired ladies preside; wood-carving shops, printsellers, pastrycooks—­where the savarins are tricked out, and where petit fours lie in a hundred varieties—­music-shops, bazaars, immense booksellers’ windows; they who are bent on a look at the shops reach a corner of the Grand Opera Street, where the Emperor’s tailor dwells.  The attractions here are, as a rule, a few gorgeous official costumes, or the laurel-embellished tail coat of the academician.  Still proceeding eastward, the shops are various, and are all remarkable for their decoration and contents.  There is a shop where cots and flower-stands are the main articles for sale; but such cots and such flower-stands!  The cots are for Princes and the flower-stands for Empresses.  I saw the Empress Eugenie quietly issuing from this very shop, one winter afternoon.

Sophonisba’s mother lingered a long time over the cots, and delighted her mother-eye with the models of babies that were lying in them.  One, she remarked, was the very image of young Harry at home.

And so on to “Barbedienne’s,” close by the well-known Vachette.

Sophonisba, however, will not wait for our description of the renowned Felix’s establishment, where are the lightest hands for pastry, it is said, in all France.  When last we caught sight of the young lady, she was chez Felix, demolishing her second baba! May it lie lightly on her—!