bows of yellow ribbon.  Her hat was a broad-brimmed Leghorn straw trimmed with large bunches of pansies.  No one but Madame Rattazzi could have worn such an attire in the public streets without the risk of being hooted, but such are the grace and beauty of this celebrated woman that her costume seemed in perfect keeping.  She was in Nice one winter for at least five months, and every day saw her out in a fresh dress.  When she travels she has more boxes than Madame Ristori.  She dwelt on the Promenade, over the dowager of Colaredo, who had a special spite against her; in consequence of which she invariably illuminated her windows, when she had company, with the Italian colors, red, white and green, to the supreme disgust of the old Ultramontane countess.  Her apartment was elegantly furnished, and adorned with beautiful vases of mignonette and plants of moss-roses.  When she received of an evening the chambers were agreeably lighted up with many pale and subdued lamps.  Her tables were always covered with new books, magazines and several copies of her own poems and novels, including an exceedingly clever story, Louise Keller, which she had just finished.  On the walls hung pictures in oil and water-colors of her own execution; on the piano were scattered, together with much classical music, some hymns, polkas and ballads of her composition.  One night she acted in a comedy of her own writing, and her rendering of the part of the heroine, a witty and intriguing widow, was inimitable.  Many severe critics have declared that Madame Rattazzi is, as an actress, a worthy rival of Fargeuil or Madeleine Brohan.  Her manners are very fascinating—­a little bit too natural to be quite French, and a little too ceremonious to be quite Italian.  She would have proved an invaluable acquisition at the downfall of the tower of Babel, for she is mistress of I dare not say how many languages.  As a rule, women hate her, and men do just the contrary.  This is not to be wondered at, for she is very beautiful even now.  Her face has the chiseled cameo features of her uncle, Napoleon I.; her eyes are deep violet, fringed with long sweeping lashes; her mouth is perfectly exquisite, and on either side of it two pretty dimples appear whenever she smiles.  So many enemies has she amongst her own sex that to avenge herself for the affronts they constantly offer her she published a magazine in Florence called the Matinees Italiennes, for the purpose of showing up her female antagonists.  Here is a sample:  “At Nice a grand ball; Madame la Viscomtesse de B——­ en grande toilette, looking for all the world like a big Nuremberg doll, with her black hair dyed an impossible straw-color, and appearing at least five years younger than she did when I first saw her make her debut in society five-and-twenty years ago; and she was then a gushing maiden of twenty-one.”  By and by comes the hour of vengeance.  Madame Rattazzi gives a ball, and not a woman will go to