I must again repeat that this is 1920.  Napoleon married Marie Louise in 1810.

Both my younger brother and I were absolutely fascinated by Paris, its streets and public gardens.  As regards myself, something of the glamour of those days still remains; Paris is not quite to me as other towns, and I love its peculiar smell, which a discriminating nose would analyse as one-half wood-smoke, one-quarter roasting coffee, and one-quarter drains.  During the eighteen years of the Second Empire, Paris reached a height of material prosperity and of dazzling brilliance which she has never known before nor since.  The undisputed social capital of Europe, the equally undisputed capital of literature and art, the great pleasure-city of the world, she stood alone and without a rival.  “La Ville Lumiere!” My mother remembered the Paris of her youth as a place of tortuous, abominably paved, dimly lit streets, poisoned with atrocious smells; this glittering town of palaces and broad white avenues was mainly the creation of Napoleon III. himself, aided by Baron Georges Haussmann and the engineer Adolphe Alphand, who between them evolved and made the splendid Paris that we know.

We loved the Tuileries gardens, a most attractive place for children in those days.  There were swings and merry-go-rounds; there were stalls where hot brioches and gaufres were to be bought; there were, above all, little marionette theatres where the most fascinating dramas were enacted.  Our enjoyment of these performances was rather marred by our anxious nurse, who was always terrified lest there should be “something French” in the little plays; something quite unfitted for the eyes and ears of two staid little Britons.  As the worthy woman was a most indifferent French scholar, we were often hurried away quite unnecessarily from the most innocuous performances when our faithful watch-dog scented the approach of “something French.”  All the shops attracted us, but especially the delightful toy-shops.  Here, again, we were seldom allowed to linger, our trusty guardian being obsessed with the idea that the toy-shops might include amongst their wares “something French.”  She was perfectly right; there was often something “very French,” but my brother and I had always seen it and noted it before we were moved off from the windows.

I wonder if any “marchands de coco” still survive in Paris.  “Coco” had nothing to do with cocoa, but was a most mawkish beverage compounded principally of liquorice and water.  The attraction about it lay in the great tank the vendor carried strapped to his back.  This tank was covered with red velvet and gold tinsel, and was surmounted with a number of little tinkling silver bells.  In addition to that, the “marchand de coco” carried all over him dozens of silver goblets, or, at all events, goblets that looked like silver, in which he handed out his insipid brew.  Who would not long to drink out of a silver cup a beverage that flowed out of a red and gold tank, covered with little silver bells, be it never so mawkish?