lacks the reasons for which Baron Haussmann bedecked her and
made her beautiful. The good Loubet, the worthy Fallieres, except
that they furnish the cartoonist with subjects for ridicule, do not
add to the gayety of Paris. But when Harden-Hickey was a boy,
Paris was never so carelessly gay, so brilliant, never so
overcharged with life, color, and adventure.

In those days "the Emperor sat in his box that night," and in the
box opposite sat Cora Pearl; veterans of the campaign of Italy, of
Mexico, from the desert fights of Algiers, sipped sugar and water
in front of Tortoni's, the Cafe Durand, the Cafe Riche; the
sidewalks rang with their sabres, the boulevards were filled with
the colors of the gorgeous uniforms; all night of each night the
Place Vendome shone with the carriage lamps of the visiting
pashas from Egypt, of nabobs from India, of _rastaquoueres_ from
the sister empire of Brazil; the state carriages, with the outriders
and postilions in the green and gold of the Empress, swept through
the Champs Elysees, and at the Bal Bulier, and at Mabile the
students and "grisettes" introduced the cancan. The men of those
days were Hugo, Thiers, Dumas, Daudet, Alfred de Musset; the
magnificent blackguard, the Duc de Morny, and the great, simple
Canrobert, the captain of barricades, who became a marshal of
France.

Over all was the mushroom Emperor, his anterooms crowded with
the titled charlatans of Europe, his court radiant with countesses
created overnight. And it was the Emperor, with his love of
theatrical display, of gorgeous ceremonies; with his restless
reaching after military glory, the weary, cynical adventurer, that
the boy at St. Cyr took as his model.