he scenes at her own
ill-success. Finally, Offenbach discovered her and wrote for her his
_Jolie Parfumeuse_. The little beauty cut off her hair, put on a blonde
wig, and bloomed out a full-blown genius. Without voice, without talent,
by dint of a lovely figure, a face of babyish prettiness and an innocent
way of uttering speeches of atrocious naughtiness, she has become one of
the theatrical successes of the hour, has brought back a harvest of
diamonds from her recent Russian trip, and will probably retire into
private life with a fortune before she is thirty.

Pass to the Cafe Anglais, that hypocrite of the Boulevards, whitewashed,
decent, outwardly respectable, yet whose windows are ablaze all night long
in the Carnival season, and whose latest legend is the tradition of "Big
16." "Big 16" is a private cabinet in the entresol, numbered after the
fashion that has given it its title, and famed as being the scene of the
orgies of the young duke de Grammont-Caderousse, that maddest of the mad
_viveurs_ of the Second Empire, and his friend the prince of Orange. The
latter still maintains his reputation in Paris as the most dissipated of
European princes. Twice has he essayed to win the hand of an English
princess, or rather his high-minded and virtuous mother made the effort in
his behalf, but neither his prospective heirship to the crown of Holland
nor his Protestantism has availed to gain for him a royal English bride.
He is known among the society that he most affects by the sobriquet of
_Citron_ (Lemon), bestowed upon him by the duke de Grammont-Caderousse at
one of the little suppers of the day. The duke continued to call the
prince Monseigneur, to which His Royal Highness objected, declaring that
he wished all formality to be laid aside respecting his birth and title.

"Is that so?" cried the duke gayly. "Then, Citron, pass me the cheese."

And the nickname has survived the duke who gave it and the government
under which it was given. Sometimes, after one of the masked balls, a pink
domino at the Cafe Americain will call for champagne, with the
announcement, "M. Citron pays," without for a moment imagining that she is
speaking of the heir to a throne.

To take a final survey, let us enter the Cafe de la Paix, the most
imperial, cosmopolitan and stylish of cafes. That well-preserved man
sitting by himself is playing _solitaire_--a group of one. That
white-haired old gentleman sitting in the alcove yonder is drinkin