Men and women came, and some looked eagerly in and pressed their faces against the bars; others glanced carelessly at the body and turned away with a disappointed look —­people, I thought, who live upon strong excitements and who attend the exhibitions of the Morgue regularly, just as other people go to see theatrical spectacles every night.  When one of these looked in and passed on, I could not help thinking—­

“Now this don’t afford you any satisfaction—­a party with his head shot off is what you need.”

One night we went to the celebrated Jardin Mabille, but only staid a little while.  We wanted to see some of this kind of Paris life, however, and therefore the next night we went to a similar place of entertainment in a great garden in the suburb of Asnieres.  We went to the railroad depot, toward evening, and Ferguson got tickets for a second-class carriage.  Such a perfect jam of people I have not often seen—­but there was no noise, no disorder, no rowdyism.  Some of the women and young girls that entered the train we knew to be of the demi-monde, but others we were not at all sure about.

The girls and women in our carriage behaved themselves modestly and becomingly all the way out, except that they smoked.  When we arrived at the garden in Asnieres, we paid a franc or two admission and entered a place which had flower beds in it, and grass plots, and long, curving rows of ornamental shrubbery, with here and there a secluded bower convenient for eating ice cream in.  We moved along the sinuous gravel walks, with the great concourse of girls and young men, and suddenly a domed and filigreed white temple, starred over and over and over again with brilliant gas jets, burst upon us like a fallen sun.  Nearby was a large, handsome house with its ample front illuminated in the same way, and above its roof floated the Star-Spangled Banner of America.

“Well!” I said.  “How is this?” It nearly took my breath away.

Ferguson said an American—­a New Yorker—­kept the place, and was carrying on quite a stirring opposition to the Jardin Mabille.

Crowds composed of both sexes and nearly all ages were frisking about the garden or sitting in the open air in front of the flagstaff and the temple, drinking wine and coffee or smoking.  The dancing had not begun yet.  Ferguson said there was to be an exhibition.  The famous Blondin was going to perform on a tightrope in another part of the garden.  We went thither.  Here the light was dim, and the masses of people were pretty closely packed together.  And now I made a mistake which any donkey might make, but a sensible man never.  I committed an error which I find myself repeating every day of my life.  Standing right before a young lady, I said: 

“Dan, just look at this girl, how beautiful she is!”

“I thank you more for the evident sincerity of the compliment, sir, than for the extraordinary publicity you have given to it!” This in good, pure English.