Chapter M: FULCHIRON.--Oh! it was a case of suicide, sure enough. He had been

hissed the previous day. He could not stand that. It was in an opera composed expressly for him--“Polyceucte.” He threw himself from a height of sixty feet. His voice did not please that particular public. Nourrit was too much accustomed to sing Glück and Mozart. The Neapolitans said of him: “Vecchico canto.”

BARON DUPIN.--Poor Nourrit! why did he not wait! Duprez has lost his voice. Eleven years ago Duprez demolished Nourrit; to-day Nourrit would demolish Duprez.

MARQUIS DE BOISSY.--How cold it is on this staircase.

COUNT PHILIPPE DE SEGUR.--It was even colder at the Academy the other day. That poor Dupaty is a good man, but he made a bad speech.

BARON FEUTRIER.--I am trying to warm myself. What a frightful draught! It is enough to drive one away.

BARON CHARLES DUPIN.--M. Français de Nantes had conceived this expedient to rid himself of those who came to solicit favours and abridge their solicitations: he was given to receiving people between two doors.

M. Thiers at this time had a veritable court of deputies about him. After the session he walked out in front of me. A gigantic deputy, whose back only I could see, stepped aside, saying: “Make way for historical men!” And the big man let the little man pass.

Historical? May be. In what way?