tand, that may be
seen any Sunday in spring, expanding under the rays of the vernal sun,
the fresh toilettes that have bloomed but yesterday, or it may be this
very morning, in the conservatories of Worth and Laferriere. The
butterflies of this garden of sweets are the jaunty hats whose tender
wings of azure or of rose have but just unfolded themselves to the
light of day. My figure of "butterfly hats" has been ventured upon in
the hope that it may be found somewhat newer than that of the
"gentlemen butterflies" which the reporters of the press have chased so
often and so long that the down is quite rubbed from its wings, to say
nothing of the superior fitness of the comparison in the present case.
In fact, the gentlemen do but very rarely flutter from flower to flower
within the sacred confines of the paddock, but are much more apt to
betake themselves in crowds to the less showy parterre of the
betting-ground, where, under the shadow of the famous chestnut tree,
such enormous wagers are laid, and especially do they congregate in the
neighborhood of the tall narrow slates set up by such well-known
bookmakers as Wright, Valentine and Saffery.

Each successive year sees an increase in the number of betters, who
contribute indirectly, by means of subscriptions to the races, a very
important proportion of the budget of the Jockey Club. But if any one
should imagine from this constant growth of receipts that the taste for
racing is extending in France, and is likely to become national, he
would be making a great mistake: what is growing, and with alarming
rapidity, is the passion for gambling, for the indulgence of which the
"improvement of the breed of horses" is but a convenient and
sufficiently transparent veil. Whether the money of the player rolls
around the green carpet of the race-course or upon that of M. Blanc at
Monte Carlo, the impulse that keeps it in motion is the same, and the
book-maker's slate is as dangerous as the roulette-table. The manager
of the one piles up a fortune as surely as the director of the other,
and in both cases the money seems to be made with an almost
mathematical certainty and regularity. They tell of one day--that of
the Grand Prix of 1877--when Saffery, the Steel of the French turf and
the leviathan of bookmakers, cleared as much as fifty thousand dollars.
Wright, Valentine, Morris and many more make in proportion to their
outlay. Four or five years ago these worthies had open offices