_Paris, November 2, 1801._
On reaching Paris, every person, whether Jew or Gentile, foreigner or
not, coming from any department of the republic, except that of _La
Seine_, in which the capital is situated, is now bound to make his
appearance at the _Préfecture de Police_.
The new-comer, accompanied by two housekeepers, first repairs to the
Police-office of the _arrondissement_, or district, in which he has
taken up his residence, where he delivers his travelling passport; in
lieu of which he receives a sort of certificate, and then he shews
himself at the _Préfecture de Police_, or General Police-office, at
present established in the _Cité_.
Here, his name and quality, together with a minute description of his
person and his place of abode, are inserted in a register kept for
that purpose, to which he puts his signature; and a printed paper,
commonly called a _permis de séjour_, is given to him, containing a
duplicate of all these matters, filled up in the blanks, which he
also signs himself. It is intended that he should always carry this
paper about him, in order that he may produce it when called on, or,
in case of necessity, for verifying his person, on any particular
occasion, such as passing by a guard-house on foot after eleven
o'clock at night, or being unexpectedly involved in any affray. In a
word, it answers to a stranger the same end as a _carte de sureté_,
or ticket of safety, does to an inhabitant of Paris.
I accordingly went through this indispensable ceremony in due form on
my arrival here; but, having neglected to read a _nota bene_ in the
margin of the _permis de séjour_, I had not been ten hours in my new
apartments before I received a visit from an Inspector of Police of
the _arrondissement_, who, very civilly reminding me of the omission,
told me that I need not give myself the trouble of going to the
Central Police-office, as he would report my removal. However, being
determined to be strictly _en règle_, I went thither myself to cause
my new residence to be inserted in the paper.
I should not have dwelt on the circumstance, were it not to shew you
the precision observed in the administration of the police of this
great city.
Under the old _régime_, every master of a ready-furnished hotel was
obliged to keep a register, in which he inserted the name and quality
of his lodgers for the inspection of the police-officers whenever
they came: this regulation is not only strictly adhered to at
present; but every person in Paris, who receives a stranger under his
roof as an inmate, is bound, under penalty of a fine, to report him
to the police, which is most vigilantly administered by Citizen
FOUCHÉ.
Last night, not being in time to find good places at the _Théâtre des
Arts_, or Grand French Opera, I went to the _Théâtre Louvois_, which
is within a few paces of it, in hopes of being more successful. I
shall not at present attempt to describe the house, as, from my
arriving late, I was too ill accommodated to be able to view it to
advantage.
However, I was well seated for seeing the performance. It consisted
of three _petites pièces_: namely, _Une heure d'absence_, _La petite
ville_, and _Le café d'une petite ville_. The first was entertaining;
but the second much more so; and though the third cannot claim the
merit of being well put together, I shall say a few words of it, as
it is a production _in honour of peace_, and on that score alone,
would, at this juncture, deserve notice.
After a few scenes somewhat languid, interspersed with common-place,
and speeches of no great humour, a _dénouement_, by no means
interesting, promised not to compensate the audience for their
patience. But the author of the _Café d'une petite ville_, having
eased himself of this burden, revealed his motive, and took them on
their weak side, by making a strong appeal to French enthusiasm. This
cord being adroitly struck, his warmth became communicative, and
animating the actors, good humor did the rest. The accessories were
infinitely more interesting than the main subject. An allemande,
gracefully danced by two damsels and a hero, in the character of a
French hussar, returned home from the fatigues of war and battle, was
much applauded; and a Gascoon poet, who declares that, for once in
his life, he is resolved to speak truth, was loudly encored in the
following couplets, adapted to the well-known air of _"Gai, le coeur
à la danse."_
"Celui qui nous donne la paix,
Comme il fit bien la guerre!
Sur lui déjà force conplets....
Mai il en reste à faire:
Au diable nous nous donnions,
Il revient, nous respirons....
Il fait changer la danse;
Par lui chez nous plus de discord;
Il regle la cadence,
Et nous voilà d'accord."
True it is, that BONAPARTE, as principal ballet-master, has changed
the dance of the whole nation; he regulates their step to the measure
of his own music, and _discord_ is mute at the moment: but the
question is, whether the French are bona-fide _d'accord_, (as the
Gascoon affirms,) that is, perfectly reconciled to the new tune and
figure? Let us, however, keep out of this maze; were we to enter it,
we might remain bewildered there, perhaps, till old Father Time came
to extricate us.
The morning is inviting: suppose we take a turn in the _Tuileries_,
not with a view of surveying this garden, but merely to breathe the
fresh air, and examine the