But we must now return to the Grand Prix.  An invalid who had been forbidden by his doctor to read the newspapers for several months, and who should chance to make his first promenade on the Boulevards on the eve of the Grand Prix, would know at a glance that something extraordinary was about to happen.  At every step he would meet the unmistakable garb that announces the Englishman on his travels—­at every turn he would hear the language of Shakespeare and of Mr. Labouchere adorned with a good deal of horse-talk.  Coney’s Cosmopolitan Bar, Rue Scribe, is full on this day of betters and bookmakers, and possibly of Englishmen of a higher rank, whilst its silver gril—­which is not of silver, however, but polished so bright as almost to look like it—­smokes with the broiling steak, and the gin cocktails and brandy-and-soda flow unceasingly.  Toward midnight, especially—­after the Salon des Courses has closed its doors—­is Coney’s to be seen in its glory.  The circus of the Champs Elysees, where Saturday is the favorite day, makes on this particular Saturday its largest receipts in the year; the Jardin Mabille is packed; the very hackney-coachmen wear the independent, half-insolent look that they have had since morning and will have till the evening of the next day—­unfailing sign in Paris that some great spectacle is impending; milliners and dressmakers are out of their wits; the world has gone mad.  The restaurant-waiters and the barbers of the Boulevard may condescend, if you happen to be a regular customer and given to tipping, to enlighten you on the chances of the respective horses.  The most knowing in these matters are supposed to be Pierre, the host of the Grand Cafe, right under the rooms of the Jockey Club, and the rotund Henry, keeper of the Restaurant Bignon, Avenue de l’Opera, the confidant of certain turfmen, who may favor him with invaluable hints if their salmis of woodcocks should have been a success or their cotelette double be done to a turn.  Charles, of the Cafe Durand, Place de la Madeleine, and Henry, the barber of the Boulevard des Italiens, are also posted in the quotations and keep themselves well informed.

On Sunday morning by ten o’clock the Bois de Boulogne is filled with pedestrians, who take their breakfast on the grass to while away the time of waiting.  The restaurants Madrid and the Cascade, where the tables are spread amidst flowers and shaded by trees—­a feature that is duly remembered in the bills, like an hors d’oeuvre—­are turning visitors away.  Toward half-past two the enclosure of the paddock is absolutely full:  not a vacant chair is to be found, and a fearful consumption of iced champagne begins at the buffet.  For, strange to say, the weather is always fine on this day, and the Encouragement Society is as notorious for its good-luck in this respect as the Skating Club and the Steeple-chase Society are for quite the opposite.  By degrees—­and perhaps helped by the champagne—­the