stone gate-way that separated the Grande Rue de Passy from the entrance
to the Bois de Boulogne--a kind of Temple Bar.

It was pulled down forty-five years ago.

I soon found myself there, just where the Grande Rue meets the Rue de la
Pompe, and went through the arch and looked towards the Bois.

It was a dull, leaden day in autumn; few people were about, but a gay
_repas de noces_ was being held at a little restaurant on my right-hand
side. It was to celebrate the wedding of Achille Grigoux, the
green-grocer, with Felicite Lenormand, who had been the Seraskiers'
house-maid. I suddenly remembered all this, and that Mimsey and Gogo
were of the party--the latter, indeed, being _premier garcon d'honneur_,
on whom would soon devolve the duty of stealing the bride's garter, and
cutting it up into little bits to adorn the button-holes of the male
guests before the ball began.

In an archway on my left some forlorn, worn-out old rips, broken-kneed
and broken-winded, were patiently waiting, ready saddled and bridled, to
be hired--Chloris, Murat, Rigolette, and others: I knew and had ridden
them all nearly half a century ago. Poor old shadows of the long-dead
past, so life-like and real and pathetic--it "split me the heart" to
see them!

A handsome young blue-coated, silver-buttoned courier of the name of
Lami came trotting along from St. Cloud on a roan horse, with a great
jingling of his horse's bells and clacking of his short-handled whip. He
stopped at the restaurant and called for a glass of white wine, and
rising in his stirrups, shouted gayly for Monsieur et Madame Grigoux.