" "I should like some, too," growls an Englishman,
"for I hadn't a morsel of breakfast," and so on. This is the way, my
dear, that we see Napoleon buried.
Did you ever see a chicken escape from clown in a pantomime, and hop
over into the pit, or amongst the fiddlers? and have you not seen the
shrieks of enthusiastic laughter that the wondrous incident occasions?
We had our chicken, of course: there never was a public crowd without
one. A poor unhappy woman in a greasy plaid cloak, with a battered
rose-colored plush bonnet, was seen taking her place among the stalls
allotted to the grandees. "Voyez donc l'Anglaise," said everybody, and
it was too true. You could swear that the wretch was an Englishwoman:
a bonnet was never made or worn so in any other country. Half an hour's
delightful amusement did this lady give us all. She was whisked from
seat to seat by the huissiers, and at every change of place woke a peal
of laughter. I was glad, however, at the end of the day to see the old
pink bonnet over a very comfortable seat, which somebody had not claimed
and she had kept.
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