A Contented Man

In the garden of the Tuileries there is a sunny corner under the wall of a
terrace which fronts the south. Along the wall is a range of benches
commanding a view of the walks and avenues of the garden. This genial nook
is a place of great resort in the latter part of autumn and in fine days in
winter, as it seems to retain the flavor of departed summer. On a calm,
bright morning it is quite alive with nursery-maids and their playful
little charges. Hither also resort a number of ancient ladies and
gentlemen, who, with the laudable thrift in small pleasures and small
expenses for which the French are to be noted, come here to enjoy sunshine
and save firewood. Here may often be seen some cavalier of the old school,
when the sunbeams have warmed his blood into something like a glow,
fluttering about like a frost-bitten moth thawed before the fire, putting
forth a feeble show of gallantry among the antiquated dames, and now and
then eying the buxom nursery-maids with what might almost be mistaken for
an air of libertinism.

Among the habitual frequenters of this place I had often remarked an old
gentleman whose dress was decidedly ante-revolutional. He wore the
three-cornered cocked hat of the _ancien regime_; his hair was frizzed
over each ear into _ailes de pigeon_, a style strongly savoring of
Bourbonism; and a queue stuck out behind, the loyalty of which was not to
be disputed. His dress, though ancient, had an air of decayed gentility,
and I observed that he took his snuff out of an elegant though
old-fashioned gold box. He appeared to be the most popular man on the walk.
He had a compliment for every old lady, he kissed every child, and he
patted every little dog on the head; for children and little dogs are very
important members of society in France. I must observe, however, that he
seldom kissed a child without, at the same time, pinching the
nursery-maid's cheek; a Frenchman of the old school never forgets his
devoirs to the sex.

I had taken a liking to this old gentleman. There was an habitual
expression of benevolence in his face which I have very frequently remarked
in these relics of the politer days of France. The constant interchange of
those thousand little courtesies which imperceptibly sweeten life have a
happy effect upon the features, and spread a mellow evening charm over the
wrinkles of old age.

Where there is a favorable predisposition one soon forms a kind of tacit
intimacy by often meeting on the same walks. Once or twice I accommodated
him with a bench, after which we touched hats on passing each other; at
length we got so far as to take a pinch of snuff together out of his box,
which is equivalent to eating salt together in the East; from that time our
acquaintance was