t is a glorious day in Paris. The whole city is out in the public
places, watching the departure of the army of Italy. Every imaginable
uniform, on foot and on horseback, enlivens the scene. Zouaves are
everywhere. Cent Gardes hurry to and fro, looking ferocious. Imperial
Gardes look magnificent. Innumerable little red-legged soldiers of the
line dance about, gesticulating vehemently. Grisettes hang about the
necks of departing braves. A great many tears are shed, and a great
deal of bombast uttered. For the invincible soldiers of France are off
to fight for an idea; and doesn't every one of them carry a marshal's
baton in his knapsack?

A troop of Cent Gardes comes thundering down in a cloud of dust,
dashing the people right and left. Loud cheers arise: "Vive
l'Empereur!" The hoarse voices of myriads prolong the yell. It is Louis
Napoleon. He touches his hat gracefully to the crowd.

A chasseur leaps into a cab.

"Where shall I take you?"

"To Glory!" shouts the soldier.

The crowd applaud. The cabman drives off and don't want any further
direction. Here a big-bearded Zouave kisses his big-bearded brother in
a blouse.

"Adieu, mon frere; write me."

"Where shall I write?"

"Direct to Vienna--_poste restante_."

Every body laughs at every thing, and the crowd are quite wild at
this.

A young man is perched upon a pillar near the garden wall of the
Tuileries. He enjoys the scene immensely. After a while he takes a
clay pipe from his pocket and slowly fills it. Having completed this
business he draws a match along the stone and is just about lighting
his pipe.

"Halloo!"

Down drops the lighted match on the neck of an _ouvrier_. It burns.
The man scowls up; but seeing the cause, smiles and waves his hand
forgivingly.

"Dick!"

At this a young man in the midst of the crowd stops and looks around.
He is a short young man, in whose face there is a strange mixture of
innocence and shrewdness. He is pulling a baby-carriage, containing a
small specimen of French nationality, and behind him walks a majestic
female.

The young man Dick takes a quick survey and recognizes the person who
has called him. Down drops the pole of the carriage, and, to the
horror of the majestic female, he darts off, and, springing up the
pillar, grasps first the foot and then the hand of his friend.

"Buttons!" he cried; "what, you! you here in Paris!"

"I believe I am."

"Why, when did you come?"

"About a month ago."

"