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Above these is logement, which always has a kitchen and two chambers, with fire-places and windows. All well-to-do married working people live in logements, which are very comfortable in the newer houses of Paris; but

only in the busiest parts of Paris. Then comes kitchen, antechamber, one, sometimes two, chambre et cabinet- a bedchamber with a bedchambers, and other conveniences. There smaller room for orts and ends: the chamber is a mirror on the marble mantel-piece of the has a window; the smaller room has a win- sitting-room and the bedchamber, a porcelain dow generally, but no fire-place. They are to stove in the dining-room, a cellar, and a serbe had for from thirty to sixty dollars. vant's chamber in the garret. In new houses there is water in the kitchen, and gas everywhere. Rent for appartements varies from one hundred and sixty to three hundred dollars. Then you have grand appartement, which has commonly two sitting-rooms and several bedchambers, besides the rooms to be found in an appartement. Above grand appartement is hôtel, which is a private mansion; while a grand hôtel is a public-house or a tavern. There are as many sorts of refectories in Paris as of lodgings.

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At all of the convents and barracks broken meats are distributed during winter. There are "economical kitchen ranges," where soup with its meat and vegetables is sold for one cent a ration; and there are innumerable places where free tickets for even these cheap rations are to be had. A ticket for bread is commonly given with the soup-ticket. At all of the markets, and especially at the Great Markets, there are itinerant coffee-sellers and soup-sellers. Frenchmen and soup are convertible terms. Whenever a Frenchman is ill, or exhausted, or hungry, or about to take a long journey, he orders soup. The first thing he orders when he gets up in the morning is soup. The last thing he takes at night before donning his night-cap (all Frenchmen wear nightcaps) is soup. So, of course, souphouses are found everywhere. Our wood-cut represents a scene in the neighborhood of the Great Markets, where from 3 A. M. to sunset hundreds of similar scenes are to be found. An old woman has a small table on which white earthenware bowls, made so thick that they might fall on the ground without breaking, and so thick that the buyer feels he has a large ration for his money, are laid; by her side are two large tin cans, both with chafing-iron in the bottom to keep the contents hot. One can holds soup, the other hot water to wash bowls after use. In old times- that is, before the ground around the Innocents' Fountain was sodded and made a public garden - all this space was covered with soup-cooks, each under a wide, red umbrella, with souppot simmering on a portable kitchen. customer was given election- a bowl of soup or pot-luck. Armed with an iron fork whose

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handle was three feet long, he had the right to try his pot-luck; if he speared a bit of meat, it was added to his soup-bowl. These picturesque kitchens have been improved out of existence. Pot-luck has been lost.

The poorest young artist or student scarcely ever enters a gargote. He prefers eating bread and cheese or bread and sausage at home to mingling with coarse throngs. If he has a little money, he goes to some crèmerie. No soup is to be had here; but coffee or chocolate, an omelette, a chop or beef-steak, and a salad are to be gotten for five cents each; bread, for two cents. Some of these crèmeries are quite clean, and the cooking is good and plain, such as one sees in peasants' houses.

A little higher in grade above the crèmerie is the bouillon; for in the business parts of Paris (where such eating-houses alone are to be found) it is frequented from 9 A. M. to 2 P. M. by business men and the better-paid clerks and shopmen. Later in the day it is frequented by the poor who are too proud, or whose position (as Government clerks and the like) forbids them, to go to the lower classes of eating-houses. You can get nothing in a bouillon but beef soup, boiled beef (the beef of the soup), cheese, currant jelly, bread, and wine. The prices are three cents for soup, five cents for beef (which has been boiled to shreds, and is as tasteless

as so much twine), and two cents for bread. Few of the customers order anything else, except a vial of wine, which costs four cents; cheese and currant jelly are three cents a ration. Bouillons Duval were originally such places as these. Duval was a butcher near the Great Markets. He every day had left odds and ends of meat, mere waste. He, like all butchers in working people's quarters, used this waste to make beef soup, which he sold to his neighbors. Being a first-rate judge of meat on the hoof (a very rare talent; the butchers in Paris who have this talent are widely known and have more business than they can attend to), he got the Hôtel du Louvre and two or three of the great clubs for customers. They wanted only the best cuts. He did not know what to do with the lower qualities of meat. In thinking over the best way to end this embarrassment, he determined to establish bouillons, where not only soup but roast meats should be sold, and so low as to tempt even customers of restaurants. They at once became popular, and poured so much money into his pocket that he turned them into restaurants, where he sold not only inferior but the highest qualities of meat.

Nearly all vintners supply food. The majority of them ought to be classed with gargotes, but many of them have two rooms, one

for working people, the other for a higher class of customers. The cooking, meats, and vegetables are very coarse, but large rations are given. This is their recommendation.

The price is six cents a ration for everything but bread, which is three cents. Some vintners have a reputation for dishes which brings them in a great deal of custom. There is a vintner in Rue du Temple whose delicious tripe draws people from every part of Paris. There are several near the Great Markets famous for snails.

Above the vintners are the fixed-price restaurants - that is, public dining-rooms where, for a given sum of money, you have for breakfast as much bread as you can eat on the

MORNING SCAVENGER.

spot, one ration of meat, one ration of vegetables, a dessert, and a vial of wine, or a second ration of meat or of vegetables instead of wine; for dinner, soup, two rations of meat, a ration of vegetables, a dessert, and a vial of wine, which may be exchanged as above mentioned. The cheapest of these restaurants are in the Latin Quarter. They are students' restaurants. All students' restaurants are crowded - not on account of excellence, but of cheapness. When a man has only sous in his pocket, he does not stop to frame a bill of fare; he runs for low prices. He

has not reached the hour when he may listen to his palate and humor all its whims. Prices at restaurants are of all rates, but fourteen, sixteen, or eighteen sous, with two sous to the waiter, will still get in the Latin Quarter a full dinner. As for quality-" Don't you think, Mr. Surface, we had better leave honor out of the argument?" Beggars must not be choosers. All cheap and especially all students' restaurants are most democratic places. Nobody hesitates to chat with his neighbor. After you have eaten three or four meals, the waiter looks on you as his property; and even before this initiation, if you order a bottle of wine (vials are the largest liquid measure known to the general customer), the waiter is sure to

bring his own glass with bottle and to toss off a bumper to your health. The victualer always sidles up to you, unless you seem to be unusually poor or hold unsatisfactory theories of credit, under which circumstances the instinct of self-preservation keeps him at a safe distance from you. What would become of his daughters' dowries and sons' marriage settlements if, while he crammed you with bread and soup, you crammed him with airy promises to pay? His eyes have two other duties to discharge. He gives as much bread as the customer can carry off under his epidermis; but some fellows (there are black sheep in all flocks!) translate epidermis overcoat, failing to distinguish between meal. eaten and meal saved. These cheap restaurants are disappearing even in the Latin Quarter. Rents, taxes, and everything else are rising, and to give a meal of any sort for less than a franc is becoming a miracle which it is daily harder to work. On the other hand, it is easier to make money in Paris than it ever was. But this is a knack which some men never find out. When the price is twentyfive cents for breakfast and fifty cents for dinner, a half bottle of wine is given. There are public dining-rooms where, for forty cents, a breakfast, and, for from seventy cents to one dollar, a dinner may be had, but where the bill of fare is apparently more limited than in restaurants. Here you are given a book and asked to select what you want; but ninetyfive of every hundred dishes set down in the book are not to be had. In public diningrooms you have a bill of fare (such as is given

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in hotels), which you may eat your way through. The secret of the low prices of the cheaper restaurants is this: they make arrangements with butchers, poulterers, and fishmongers to take from them, a little while before they close for the day, all meat, poultry, and fish left over, and which would be unsalable by next morning. They get these objects below cost, and at once cook them enough to prevent spoiling. They go to the Great Markets just before the markets close. The peasants, sooner than carry their market stuff home again, will sell it for a mere song. Fruit and vegetables which could not have been bought during the morning for less than six cents apiece may be had, then, three for one

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Lastly come restaurants where one pays not only for what he takes, but for everything he uses- -even for the knives, forks, and spoons. There are all sorts of these restaurants, cheap and dear; the cheapest are, however, dearer than the highest fixed-price

restaurant.

I must not omit to mention cafés, although they are becoming mere billiard saloons. Clubs have hurt them. Then the introduction of bars gave them another blow. A still more serious blow was the establishment of musical cafés. Cafés are a cheap club. Artists, literary men, and business men living in the same neighborhood meet at cafés after dinner. Cafés are neutral ground, where there is no etiquette of visits, where everybody is equally at home, where one may order what he pleases, may come when he chooses, and leave the instant he feels tired; where the room is handsome, brilliantly lighted, comfortably warm, always animated. If these habitual frequenters be numerous enough to warrant it, a room is set apart solely for their use: it is really a club-room. The musical cafés require customers to take some refreshment (all refreshments served in them are dear and bad), but at most of them tickets, costing ten cents, are sold at the counter, which relieve visitors from the importunities of waiters. Neighbors who are known to be frequent visitors are commonly told that they are welcome without payment of admittance fee; even in these musical cafés there are corners reserved for neighbors who come with their wives and children to spend the evening.

Were I poor and wished to master French quickly and thoroughly, to see a great deal of French life, to understand the current of unwritten French thought, and to spend as little money as possible, I should, were I a man, become a boarder in a third-rate boys' school; were I a woman, in a third-rate girls'

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A GUARDIAN OF THE PUBLIC GARDENS.

school in the suburbs of Paris or, which would every way be better, in some small provincial town. Here I should attend all the lessons, especially all the French and English lessons, given. I should select the most intelligent tutor, and win him, or her, by taking private lessons (they would not cost more than two dollars a month) and by making timely presents; he or she would on holy-day show you sights missed by general travelers. He would explain them to you, and call attention to particulars which else had escaped notice. You would visit the churches of Paris and mark the difference between them.

Or he or she would go with you to public gardens and analyze the people met. There are no more majestic figures in Paris (beadles of the great churches excepted) than the constables of the public gardens. Strangers take them for marshals of France. The cross of the Legion is on their breast; immense epaulettes hang on their shoulders; their clothes are brilliant military uniforms; their hat is that worn by the infantry. So strangers' eyes may well gaze on them for glories of France. They are old non-commissioned officers, whose declining days are made more comfortable by having the pay of constable added to pension. Their duties are light. They are expected to wage war on turbulent boys, to give chase to dogs that invade the garden, to guard flowers from hands that can not distinguish between meum and tuum. Their campaign never begins

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until long after sunrise and always ends with twilight. Their longest forced march is from chair to chair. Their existence is a Frenchman's beau idéal of life-plenty to eat and drink, nothing to do, sauntering in a public promenade till legs whisper "seat," and clothed from head to foot in gaudy clothes.

He or she would warn you against the adventurers with whom public resorts in Paris swarm. Once familiar with their physiognomy you would detect them everywhere, and find this knowledge useful even on your return to the United States. Faces such as our wood-cut portrays are to be seen hourly in Paris. When this knave gets up in the

morning he does not know where he will breakfast, still less where he will dine; and should his landlord be harsh, or have lost patience, he does not know where he will sleep. His only hope is that, if he eat very moderately and content himself with soup and bread, the mistress of the crèmerie will still give him credit, or that he may meet some acquaintance who will treat him to meat or drink. He is utterly without scruple. If he does not steal, it is solely from cowardice-fear of being caught.

Now the tutor already mentioned would take you to one of the most charming sights of Paris-the "first communion" of all the

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