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his hours for upwards of half a century, and they doubtless
justified his frequent declaration that there was no place like
Paris. In no other place, on these terms, could Mr. Luce flat-
ter himself that he was enjoying life. There was nothing like
Paris, but it must be confessed that Mr. Luce thought less
highly of this scene of his dissipations than in earlier days.
In the list of his resources his political reflections should
not be omitted, for they were doubtless the animating prin-
ciple of many hours that superficially seemed vacant. Like
many of his fellow colonists Mr. Luce was a high—or rather
a deep—conservative, and gave no countenance to the gov-
ernment lately established in France. He had no faith in its
duration and would assure you from year to year that its end
was close at hand. ‘They want to be kept down, sir, to be kept
down; nothing but the strong hand—the iron heel—will do
for them,’ he would frequently say of the French people; and
his ideal of a fine showy clever rule was that of the super-
seded Empire. ‘Paris is much less attractive than in the days
of the Emperor; he knew how to make a city pleasant,’ Mr.
Luce had often remarked to Mrs. Touchett, who was quite
of his own way of thinking and wished to know what one
had crossed that odious Atlantic for but to get away from
republics.
‘Why, madam, sitting in the Champs Elysees, opposite
to the Palace of Industry, I’ve seen the court-carriages from
the Tuileries pass up and down as many as seven times a
day. I remember one occasion when they went as high as
nine. What do you see now? It’s no use talking, the style’s
all gone. Napoleon knew what the French people want, and

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