ittle about the cost of
things, care only for the things themselves, and give them the value of
their own caprices,--women who will break a fan or a smelling-bottle
fit for queens in a moment of passion, and scream with rage if a servant
breaks a ten-franc saucer from which their poodle drinks.

Florine's dining-room, filled with her most distinguished offerings,
will give a fair idea of this pell-mell of regal and fantastic luxury.
Throughout, even on the ceilings, it was panelled in oak, picked out,
here and there, by dead-gold lines. These panels were framed in relief
with figures of children playing with fantastic animals, among which the
light danced and floated, touching here a sketch by Bixiou, that maker
of caricatures, there the cast of an angel holding a vessel of holy
water (presented by Francois Souchet), farther on a coquettish painting
of Joseph Bridau, a gloomy picture of a Spanish alchemist by Hippolyte
Schinner, an autograph of Lord Byron to Lady Caroline Lamb, framed in
carved ebony, while, hanging opposite as a species of pendant, was a
letter from Napoleon to Josephine. All these things were placed about
without the slightest symmetry, but with almost imperceptible art. On
the chimney-piece, of exquisitely carved oak, there was nothing except
a strange, evidently Florentine, ivory statuette attributed to Michael
Angelo, representing Pan discovering a woman under the skin of a young
shepherd, the original of which is in the royal palace of Vienna. On
either side were candelabra of Renaissance design. A clock, by Boule, on
a tortoise-shell stand, inlaid with brass, sparkled in the centre of one
panel between two statuettes, undoubtedly obtained from the demolition
of some abbey. In the corners of the room, on pedestals, were lamps
of royal magnificence, as to which a manufacturer had made strong
remonstrance against adapting his lamps to Japanese vases. On a
marvellous sideboard was displayed a service of silver plate, the gift
of an English lord, also porcelains in high relief; in short, the luxury
of an actress who has no other property than her furniture.

The bedroom, all in violet, was a dream that Florine had indulged from
her debut, the chief features of which were curtains of violet velvet
lined with white silk, and looped over tulle; a ceiling of white
cashmere with violet satin rays, an ermine carpet beside the bed; in
the bed, the curtains of which resembled a lily turned upside down was
a