were endeavouring to breast a perfect sea of fiacres which, like a
swarm of mosquitoes, appeared to be trying to go in every
direction at once, their drivers vociferating torrents of
vituperous abuse on every man, woman or beast unfortunate enough
to get in their way. As a dispenser of unspeakable profanity, the
Paris cocher has no equal. He is unique, no one can approach him.
He also enjoys the reputation of being the worst driver in the
world. If there is any possible way in which he can run down a
pedestrian or crash into another vehicle he will do it, probably
for the only reason that it gives him another opportunity to
display his choice stock of picturesque expletives.

But it was a lively, good-natured crowd and the fashionably gowned
women and the well-dressed men, the fakirs hoarsely crying their
catch-penny devices, the noble boulevards lined as far as the eye
could reach with trees in full foliage, the magnificent Opera
House with its gilded dome glistening in the warm sunshine of a
June afternoon, the broad avenue directly opposite, leading in a
splendid straight line to the famous Palais Royal, the almost
dazzling whiteness of the houses and monuments, the remarkable
cleanliness and excellent condition of the sidewalks and streets,
the gaiety and richness of the shops and restaurants, the
picturesque kiosks where they sold newspapers and flowers--all
this made up a picture so utterly unlike anything he was familiar
with at home that Jefferson sat spellbound, delighted.

Yes, it was true, he thought, the foreigner had indeed learned the
secret of enjoying life. There was assuredly something else in the
world beyond mere money-getting. His father was a slave to it, but
he would never be. He was resolved on that. Yet, with all his