In the Palais Royal the three most remarkable temples of dissipation are Very’s for gastronomes, Robert’s faro bank for gamesters, and the Cafe Montausier for those devoted to the fair sex.  The Cafe Montausier is fitted up in the guise of a theatre where music, singing and theatrical pieces are given; you pay nothing for admission, but are expected to call for some refreshment.  It is splendidly illuminated, and is the Cafe par excellence, frequented by those ladies who have made the opposite choice to that of Hercules, and who, taking into consideration the shortness and uncertainty of life, dedicate it entirely to pleasure, reflecting that

  Laggiu nell’ Inferno,
  Nell’ obblio sempiterno,
  In sempiterno orrore,
  Non si parla d’amore.

Of course, this saloon is crowded with amateurs, and the Prussians and English are not the least ardent votaries of the Goddess of Paphos; many a vanquished victor sinks oppressed with wine and love on the breast of a Dalilah:  this last comparison suggests itself to me from the immense quantity of hair worn by the Prussians, as if their strength, like that of Samson’s, depended on their chevelure.  There is a very pretty graceful girl who attends here and at the different restaurants and cafes with an assortment of bijouterie and other knick-knacks to sell.  She is full of wit and repartee; but her answer to all those who attempt to squeeze her hand and make love to her is always:  “Achetez quelque chose.” Her name is Celine and she has a great flow of conversation on all subjects but that of love, which she invariably cuts short by “Achetez quelque chose.”

10th August.

I have been to see the Museum of sculpture and painting in the Louvre, but what is to be seen there baffles all description: 

  Se tante lingue avessi e tante voci
  Quanti occhi il cielo o quante arene il mare
  Non basterian a dir le lodi immense.

The Apollo Belvedere, the Venus de Medici and the Laocoon first claimed my attention, and engaged me for at least an hour and a half before I could direct my attention to the other masterpieces.  I admire indeed the Laocoon, still more the Venus, but the Apollo certainly bears away the palm and I fully participate of all Winkelmann’s enthusiasm for that celebrated statue.  The Venus is a very beautiful woman, but the Apollo is a god.  One is lost, and one’s imagination is bewildered when one enters into the halls of sculpture of this unparalleled collection, amidst the statues of Gods, Demi-Gods, Heroes, Philosophers, Poets, Roman Emperors, Statesmen and all the illustrious worthies that adorned the Greek and Roman page.  What subjects for contemplation!  A chill of awe and veneration pervaded my whole frame when I first entered into that glorious temple of the Arts.  I felt as I should were I admitted among supernatural beings, or as if I had “shuffled off this mortal coil” and were suddenly ushered into the presence of the illustrious tenants of another world; in fact, I felt as if Olympus and the whole Court of Immortals were open to my view.  No!  I cannot describe these things, I can only feel them; I throw down the pen and call upon expressive silence to muse their praise.