CHAPTER XLIII.

SCARLET WOMEN.

WE were standing on the smooth, grassy lawn, at Goodwood, a wandering American and the writer, strangers in a strange land, with the bustle and uproar which are always adjuncts to a Race Course in any country, and the Babel exclamations of a multitudinous assemblage sounding in our ears.

[Sidenote: GOODWOOD RACES.]

It was the first day of the annual races, which are run for three days in every year, at Goodwood, the princely residence and grounds of the Duke of Richmond. This is the most aristocratic race meeting held in England, and it is always frequented by the nobles and people of high social position, with their wives, daughters, and lady friends.

The meeting is divided into three separate days running, each day having a distinctive title, and known to those familiar with equine sport, as the "Stakes Day," the "Cup Day," and the "Duke's Plate Day."

It was a beautiful and unclouded English July noon, and the smell of the hawthorn hedges, and the faint breath of the hollyhocks made a perfume in the air, which banished all humors and sulkiness from the crowds of well dressed and well bred people who had been waiting to hear the saddling bell rung before the start. Lithe and sinewy little jockeys, clad in parti-colored silk shirts, and wearing kaleidoscopic caps of the same material, walked the fresh-looking, silken-maned, and symmetrical-limbed horses, up and down the velvety green sward, to give the high bred English girls an opportunity to inspect their favorites, whose colors predominated in the shades of their gloves, parasols, and gracefully-hung robes, which rustled around their supple and elegant figures.

Under high, sheltering greenwood trees, cosy seats were arranged for the ladies, who made the Lawn picturesque with their bright colored dresses that shone with splendor as their owners gathered in brilliant patches on the velvety turf, gossiping and chatting while Guardsmen, and Clubmen, Heavy Swells, and noisy boys, from Eton and Harrow, gamboled and shouted as if at cricket, and sedate gownsmen from Cambridge, and Double Firsts, and Wranglers, from Oxford, made wagers, and drew from their coat-pockets small betting books to record the sums invested.

The Embankment, a high, long, and well-kept mound of grass-covered earth, was swarming with the fair sex, all of whom had their swan-like necks encircled with white lace ruffs, which serve so well as a setting for a well-shaped and milk-white throat.

Afar off we could observe, through yawning gaps in the ancient and stately trees, which were pierced by the ruddy beams of sunlight, the tall towers and fair proportions of Goodwood House, the magnificent mansion of the Duke of Richmond. Twenty to twenty-five thousand people were gathered in the noble old Park whose vistas stretched off into dells, copses, and woodland nooks, for thousands of acres.

Here were gathered all the well-known aristocratic patrons of the turf in England, men who would hardly be seen at Newmarket or Epsom, and here again were the racing men, whose names are met with everywhere in England, where the warning bell is rung to saddle, and where thousands may be lost and won in an hour--the Westmorelands, the Savilles, Chaplins, Anneslies, Prince Soltykoff, Count de Lagrange, who owned "Gladiateur," Lord Vivian, Sir Frederick Johnstone, Lord Roseberry, Sir Joseph Hawley, Admiral Rous, Captain Hall, Lord Wilton, Lord St. Vincent, Lord Ailesbury, Sir C. Legard, Baron Rothschild, the Duke of Beaufort, Mr. W.S. Crawfurd, Lord Poulett, Lord Falmouth, Lord Calthorpe, Mr. E. Brayley, Lord Strafford, Mr. Bromsgrove, and many others, titled and untitled, who are leaders among the racing aristocracy. The Marquis of Hastings, and the Duke of Newcastle, that day, were absent--the first in his grave, the other beggared by his extravagance, and an outcast among his peers.

As the day grew apace, the swarms of people became more densely packed until all classes of the sporting multitude were represented. There was the "Welcher," who makes bets and does not pay when he loses, a low-sized, stumpy fellow, in cutaway frock coat and drab beaver hat, a huge horse's head pin sticking out of his gaudy, blue scarf, which is dotted with small white balls, and wearing a shaggy moustache, which he twists with the head of his cane, that has for a knob a nag's head, in bone-work.

Yonder, stopping to ask for a noggin of gin from one of the proprietors of the numerous ginger beer and refreshment stands, is the London prize fighter--a model, in his way--thick set, broad in the loins, and having a murderous forehead and a battered face, from some recent encounter, one of those dangerous-looking, suspicious fellows, whom you may meet with any night wandering about the docks in Wapping, or lounging at the notched doorway of a tavern in Shoreditch, or Whitechapel.

Sauntering this way, where I stand in a shady spot with my American friend, are two "heavy swells," dressed in the height of fashion, and mincing their vowels in a feminine manner; yet effeminate as their language sounds, they are both massive-looking fellows, and now I recollect having seen both leaning out of the bow window of the Guard's Club, in Pall Mall, and one of the pair I have also noticed trooping his company at St. James' Palace, at the unusually early hour--for him--of nine o'clock, of a summer's morning.

Men are gambling, and singing, and eating, and drinking, and betting shillings and sovereigns all around us, and my companion seems stunned by the noise and uproar which rises and swells in an indistinct way this hot July day, as we move from place to place seeking a quiet nook where we may commune together.

[Sidenote: ENGLISH MINSTRELSY.]

There is suddenly a discordant hum and a party of strolling minstrels halt before a carriage and commence to serenade the fair lady listeners, who fling sixpences to them languidly. These minstrels have their faces blacked, and are appareled in hideous check coats with very small bodies, and have very large buttons sewed to the skirts, which are ornamented with ridiculously long tails. The songs generally sung by those wretched minstrels, are slangy, and sound senseless to an American's ear, as witness the following stanza which they chant with wide-mouthed refrain:--

"Button up your waistcoat, button up your shoes, Have another liquor and throw away the blues, Be like me and good for a spree, From now till the day is dawning. For I am a member of the Rollicking Rams, Come and be a member of the Rollicking Rams, The only boys to make a noise, From now till the day is dawning."

The course was lined and packed with every known manner of vehicle and equipage. There were drags, four-in-hands, dog-carts, landaus, tandem teams, ladies' pony chaises, phætons, carryalls, clarences, broughams, and open barouches. Many of the turn-outs were adorned with the crests of noble families, and some few bore the princely cognizances of great Continental houses.

One of these large, roomy, and handsomely-constructed, open barouches, drawn by four grey horses, served as a focus for many glances drawn toward it. Some of the glances bestowed on the female occupants of the handsome barouche were very unfriendly--and when some proud patrician girl rode by, her eyes shot fire at the borrowed splendor of the three Scarlet Women, who reclined lazily upon the softly-cushioned seats, and no less hostile were the glances thrown on the graceful wavy figure of the handsome girl who sat her thoroughbred and silken-eared and shapely chestnut bay mare by the side of the barouche, and who bent over like a reed to chat with the principal female figure leaning back on the cushions.

I looked at these four gaily dressed, handsome women, with their loud chatty manners, their indescribably bold flashes of the eye, their familiar and free conversation with the titled fools and giddy young lordlings, and baronets and rich young commoners, and as I looked I saw that these four women represented the Great Social Plague Spot of England. While I looked, a police inspector, from London, who had come down to this ordinarily quiet, Sussex town, to keep an eye on some distinguished pickpockets who were to attend the races, sauntered to where I stood with my friend, and as I had made his acquaintance in the English capital he was not long in informing me as to the character of the magnificently attired women.

"They are the four gayest women in England, Sir," said he, "Those four ladies--_we_ call them _ladies_ because we dare not call them anything else, they have so many protectors of rank and influence--are "Mabel Grey," "Anonyma," "Baby Hamilton," and "Alice Gordon."

"Mabel Gray?" said my friend enquiringly, "I think I've heard of her before--which is she?"

"That's her, Sir, as is sitting back in the front seat with a plate of chicken on her lap, with the golden butterflies in her lace bonnet, and the splendid diamond cross hanging from her neck--that's the gal with the blue eyes and auburn hair. The gal that's holding the long necked green glass for that swell to pour champagne into it, is "Baby Hamilton"--ah, she is a wild one--many's the thousand pounds the young Jook of Hamilton squandered on her, and so did the poor Marquis of Hastings, poor fellow--wuss for him. The finest looking gal of all is that "Anonyma" gal as some of these fellows that has book eddication has called her--they say it means "No Name," but I know she has a name, for it used to be Kate Bellingham when she came to London first. Oh, she's a high blooded one--just look at how she sits that chestnut mare--I'll warrant you that mare would bring six hundred guineas at Tattersall's--if she'd bring a pound--ye won't ketch her drinking in public, she's too proud of herself to do that--no, Sir, she wouldn't be seen taking a drink from the Prince of Wales himself at a public place like the Race Course. Now there's Alice Gordon," added the police officer, who began to grow loquacious in his description of these fair but frail and giddy beauties, "she's a quiet, orderly, young creature, and as pretty as a peach, poor little thing--God help her--she never knew a mother's care, and she was lost for want of a kind word and a loving heart to guide her young steps."

[Sidenote: "THEY ARE OFF."]

Now the saddling bell has rung amid the greatest excitement, and the multitude who have been flirting, eating, and drinking, betting, and playing at divers games of chance, become suddenly hushed, and a great quiet comes over the populated fields, stands, and tents, as the jockeys ride forth to the starting point, five famous horses held in the leash and straining their necks with avidity and equine eagerness for the race. The ladies of the demi-monde settled themselves well forward in their seats. "Anonyma" swept by on her chestnut to get a good position for a look at the horses. "Mabel Grey" allowed her knife and fork, which she had been using on the unoffending chicken, to fall into her plate, and the tangled curls of "Baby Hamilton" reclined on her shoulders as a fool of a Guardsman gave her his arm to assist her to stand up in the drag, and handed her his glass to sweep the field. The stately looking footman who is bustling among the dishes and wine bottles, assisting "Anonyma's" butler in preparation for the coming feast, stops in his occupation to listen to the thundering roar of the crowd, and to look at the gallant animals as they come forward to the stand. The butler, who is a grave and elderly personage, receives his orders from "Anonyma," with dignity, and he is lost to sight among the game-hampers and the champagne bottles, and Moselle flasks, for a moment.

Listen to that cheer and long-continued shout! They are off, they are off; and the whole vast swarm of human beings is aroused. The ladies clap their hands and utter weak sounds of joy or distress, and the cadgers, tramps, and more polished pickpockets, are now beginning to reap their harvest in the midst of the excitement and momentary frenzy.

The race is a two-mile stretch, and only five horses are entered. The prize is the Goodwood Cup, valued at three hundred sovereigns.

Two of the horses entered are four-year-olds, and the others are three-year-olds. The great Jewish banker and member of Parliament, Baron Rothschild, has entered "Restitution," a four year old, who is ridden by Daley, an Irish jockey of fame. Sir Frederick Johnstone's entry is "Brigantine," a three year old. Mr. Saville's "Blueskin," Lord Calthorpe's "Robespierre," and Lord Strafford's "Rupert," make up the number of horses who have darted by the Grand Stand in the storm of wild huzzas.

[Sidenote: "ANONYMA."]

"Anonyma," whose chestnut was pawing the turf in a frisky manner, grips the bridle of the blooded mare, and pulls hardily at her mouth. A number of roughs around a booth salute her with not very choice language, for she is known at the races, and the blood mantles in her cheek and the crimson tide surges up to her temples as a coarse blackguard repeats an opprobious epithet, and before he can draw back she lays his cheek open with her dainty riding-whip, and giving the mare more rope, the crowd opens wide for her with a cheer, and she dashes across the Course on a canter, just as the Rothschild's jockey, with his head bent down to the mane of "Restitution," and his silken cap flying in the hot wind, sweeps by, "Blueskin" following fast, and the great banker's jockey swerving aside from his course, wins, by a miracle; "Restitution" having been for a moment blinded by the long skirts of "Anonyma," in her mad canter across the turf, and now there is a huzza, and a rending, wild hurricane of applause, as Rothschild's colors go forward to the Weighing Stand, and "Restitution" is pronounced winner of the Goodwood Cup of 1869, "Robespierre" being a bad fourth, and "Rupert" coming in last of the field.

Now the principal race of the day is ended, and great acclaim having been given to the victor, the crowds disintegrate and separate into little knots for refreshments, and hard-faced fellows, in flashy costumes, may be seen pulling from capacious pockets, greasy wallets, to settle their debts of "honor," and much beer is drank among the humble people, and floods of costly wines are poured out in drags and dog-carts, and bright eyes and smiling lips meet one everywhere, and there is a clatter of knives and forks, and a popping of corks in the vicinity of the carriages occupied by the Scarlet Women of London, who are here to-day in swarms, and who are caressed and welcomed as if their position was assured and the dark shadow of a Shameful Life had not fallen upon them.

Leaning over the side of the drag, and talking to Mabel Grey, are three of the "fastest" young men in England, Lord Arthur Pelham Clinton (since dead), Courtenay, Earl of Devon, and the Duke of Newcastle, brother to Lord Arthur. All three are bankrupt in fortune as well as in morality. Lord Arthur's mother, a daughter of the former Duke of Hamilton, dishonored her husband, and there seems to be a taint in the blood of the young noble, who has been living on his wits for years. He is a languid-looking fellow, and does not look as if he could fall-to and saw a load of wood.

Mabel Grey says to Lord Arthur, with a lisp: "Clinton, do take a bit of chicken and a glass of fizz. No? Well then, take a glass of hock, like a dear good boy. You look awfully cut. What can be the matter with the man?"

Just under the shadow of the wide-spreading beech-tree, where the drag is stationed, an itinerant preacher is about to commence a phillipic against Vice and Crime. He could not have chosen a better location than this, where the ears of these Painted Women may be filled by him with some truths that they seldom seek after.

"Alice Gordon," the fair-haired blonde, with the deep blue eyes, condescends to bestow a glance at the preacher, who, now that he is beginning to draw a crowd by his fiery invective, and denunciatory language, directs a look of scorn and pity at the Lost Women in the drag. The crowd, who naturally dislike women of the class of Lais and Aspasia, give encouragement to the squat-figured and harshly-spoken Boanerges. The swells around the drag, who are now joined by Sir Frederick Johnstone, advise the Scarlet Women to tell the coachman to whip up the horses and "dwive the dwag away from that beastly preacher--the howid little boah."

The preacher thunders at them, "Go, you gaudy libertines, with your harlots and your women of Sodom, England is cursed with such as you. But God will punish you all, and will smite you in your hour of pride. For what says the Book, whose pages you never open:

"_The ungodly are forward, even from their mother's womb; as soon as they are born they go astray, and speak lies._

"_They are venomous as the poison of a serpent, even like the deaf adder, that stoppeth her ears._

"_Break their teeth, O God, in their mouths; smite the jaw-bones of the Lions, O Lord; let them fall away like water that runneth apace; and when they shoot their arrows let them be rooted out._"

"Baby Hamilton," one of the women in the drag, shudders at these Inspired Words and grows pale, while "Anonyma," who canters up easily on her chestnut, asks Sir Frederick Johnstone:

"Did you pull off a pot of money on "Brigantine," Sir Frederick?"

"No, the doose of it was I lost two thousand on my own horse. But I hedged and took 'Restitution' against the field, so I am not so badly plucked."

And this is the entertainment and conversation of some of the hereditary rulers of England. Pardon me, reader, if I have brought you into such loose and unprincipled company. I did it to show you who are the female companions of a majority of the young English nobility. It is this class of young men who patronise these Social Pariahs, and look with contempt upon the manners of a respectable girl, and vote the conversation of virtuous women as a bore.

[Sidenote: "MABEL GREY."]

That woman with the sunny smile, laying back in the drag, toying with her fan--Mabel Grey--was, five years ago, a wretchedly-paid working girl, who eked out an existence as a shoe-binder, in a shop in Oxford street, London, on a pittance of seven shillings a week. Now, the diamonds on her fingers would purchase a comfortable villa, and around her throat, which is white as alabaster, is a necklace of pearls, that cost the Prince of Wales five thousand pounds, it is said. She rides every day in Rotten Row, the famous ride and fashionable drive in Hyde Park, and her skirts often touch the garments of the Princess of Wales as they pass each other in the crowded Row. And certainly the Princess has no reason to look pleasantly at Mabel Grey. Mother to five children, and daughter of the Vikings, with clear, unsullied Norse blood in her veins, she may well question herself, when alone, "Why did I marry a profligate and blackguard?"

Mabel Grey is the original of Boucicault's "Formosa," and it was she who gave a name to Dan Godfrey's famous "Mabel Waltz." Godfrey is the leader of the Guard's band, and the musician thought that it would be received as a delicate compliment by his aristocratic patrons, to call a delicious piece of dance music by the Christian name of the chief of England's Hetairæ.

In every shop-window the features of Mabel Grey are flaunted at one along with the portraits of Nillson, Patti, the Queen, the Princess of Wales, and other virtuous and good women. You may meet her and "Anonyma" at the Opera, at the Chiswick Flower Show, at Kensington Gardens, and other fashionable resorts, mingling unrebuked among the noblest ladies in the land. She has a sumptous villa at St. John's Wood, Brompton, a suburb of London, and in her stables are constantly kept twelve to fifteen blooded animals for the saddle or for driving--these horses being the gifts of her numerous aristocratic admirers. She dines off dishes of silver and gold, and has a host of servants. At Ascot she induced the Prince of Wales to bet on a certain horse, whereby he lost the nice little sum of $100,000, or £20,000.

And it is this bold, brazen, and bad woman, who divides the heart of the Prince of Wales with the Princess Alexandra, his lawful wife and the mother of his children, the other half being owned by Mabel Grey, together with his pocket-book, which he is most apt to keep closed to all others.

She was the cause of the ruin of Captain Milbanke, of the Guards--a distant relation of the deceased wife of Lord Byron, I believe--and she has destroyed dozens of young men in their fortunes, social position, and masculine character.

[Sidenote: "MABEL GREY AT HOME."]

And here, I suppose, I may be pardoned for giving a pen and ink description of the interior of her palatial residence at St. John's Wood, Brompton, where she resides, by one who saw and conversed with her there:

The salon was about sixty feet long by thirty wide, and the ceiling was probably fifteen feet from the velvet carpet. Velvet decorated the walls, hanging in crimson folds somewhat like the arras hangings that I had seen in some of the mildewed chateaux of the French nobles. There was, in the front of the salon, an immense mirror framed in gold, and inside of the golden frame was a sub-frame of crimson velvet. The lounges, chairs, ottomans, and buffets, were trimmed with velvet of the same warm color. The carpet on the floor was a Gobelin, in which was worked a pictured design of the port of Marseilles, at a cost of two thousand pounds. There were richly carved statues of Parian, bronzes, antique and richly-painted vases, shells standing on golden tripods, caricatures of dogs' heads, tigers' heads, and the bodies of serpents, with glistening eyes--all of which articles had more or less of the precious metals in their composition. Pictures of Diana of Poictiers, Margaruite de Valois, Theroigne de Mericourt, Anna Boleyn, Louisa de Valliere, and a supposed mistress of John Wilkes Booth, of whom I had never before heard, adorned the walls of the salon.

These were all done in oil, well painted, and magnificently framed. The place of honor, however, was reserved for Ninon de l'Enclos, the mistress of one of the Bourbon Kings. This picture was a beautiful work of art, and represented the famous beauty of the old French Court, reclining opposite a mirror. There was a small figure piece by Meissonier, and a statue of Minerva of pure marble, from whose spear head depended a small but richly chased gas-chandelier, of six burners, that spread a flood of light all over the salon. A hundred thousand dollars would not have purchased the furniture, carpets, statues, paintings, and ornaments, in this gorgeous apartment, to say nothing of the diamonds which covered the neck and arms of the beautiful but frail mistress of the mansion.

And now for Mabel herself. This distinguished personage, as she lounged on the tiger-skin, looked to me a little above the medium height of women; her hair, of a rich, silky brown, full and lustrous, was looped in coils at the top of the back of her head a la Grecque, and was trimmed with small red flowers. From her ears were pendant long, oval, diamond ear-rings, and from her snowy neck was hung a necklace, of pearl shells interwoven with diamonds, worth a monarch's ransom. Her arms were bare and rounded, and her shoulders were decollete. She was attired in a loosely flowing robe of pink velvet--the only thing pink I saw in the apartment--and at her waist was a plain thin cincture of gold. She wore her dress without hoops, which allowed the folds of her costly robe to fall over her shapely limbs in studied yet artistic confusion. On the different fingers of both hands were rings of topaz, sapphire, ruby, emerald, amethyst, and opal, fastened by golden keepers. She had crimson slippers, embroidered in gold, and in her right hand she waved lazily, to and fro, a fan of costly feathers. The woman herself was a magnificent animal to look at, with a spice of the tiger shining out of her clear, lustrous eyes.

[Sidenote: PERSONNEL.]

The neck was well poised and finely cut, as were the face and shoulders. The mouth was large and full of good, white, regular teeth, which she displayed often during the conversation to advantage. The nose was irregular, pert, and snubbish, and her chin was like the cone of a ripe peach. Something there was brazen in this woman's face, despite the magnificence reigning in the apartment. Her voice was loud and sharp, and her gestures were unladylike, though she endeavored to atone for these defects by a studied ease which occasionally lapsed into a masculine freedom. She was continually showing her rings, her fan, and her slippers--and seemed careless of the little prudential details that go to make up the manner of a virtuous woman.

"Anonyma" is, in many respects, a different woman from Mabel Grey. This celebrated Lorette, unlike her frail sisters, has a taste, or perhaps affects to have a taste, for literature. Originally a clergyman's daughter, and born and bred in Sussex, she had, when she came first to London, all the charms of a fresh country girl, and, although exposed for a long time to temptation in her station as a governess in the family of a rich commoner, whose name is now often before the public, she held on her way firmly as she could, and would have succeeded had not she met a man who outraged her by a false or mock marriage.

The poor girl, whose real name is Brandling, when she found that she was deserted with a few pounds in her pocket, went almost mad. But she had to starve or else become what she is now. Her father, overworked in his curacy at £150 a year, and having a family of five children, refused to admit her to his home, and gave as a reason that it would be setting a bad example to his parishioners, which he, as a minister of the Gospel could not do. Driven from her birthplace, with despair in her heart, she fled to London, and, sinking at once into the slough of iniquity, was not heard of for a year, when she emerged in grandeur at the opera in the company of a wealthy banker, who has since failed and fled the country.

The girl, from her reticent disposition, her lady-like manner, and the mystery attending her appearance in the world--no one being able to tell her exact position--received the name of "Anonyma" from the _Saturday Review_. Unlike the other women of her sex, this girl was never formerly seen in the company of any woman whose position was affected by the slightest breath of reproach. In the Park she never made acquaintances, and all notes sent to her were sent back to the writers. To become acquainted with "Anonyma," though the seeker after her intimacy were a prince, it was necessary to have a formal introduction to the lady.

The "Kitten" is a young lady well known at the Cremorne Gardens for her expensive suppers, loud voice, and magnificent pony carriage, before which she drives sometimes a brace of Shetland ponies, three in a tandem. At the Cremorne she always puts ice-cream in her champagne, and never drinks any light or thin wines, as she says that they do not agree with her constitution. I saw her at the Ascot Races in company with Mabel Grey, the "Kitten" being mounted on a splendid roan, which she managed with the skill of an old army officer, and a dozen men belonging to the best known clubs in London were clustering about her, and assisting her to luncheon, looking after the wine, or doing a hundred little errands which women of her character always find for men to do in a public place. The "Kitten" is a blonde, with black eyes, a pretty, babyish face, a dimpled chin, a profusion of golden hair which is not dyed, and a capital seat in the saddle. She is always gloved to a nicety, and her ensemble is of the best kind. She has a pert fashion of saying sharp or impudent things, and this seems to be the chief accomplishment of all this class of shameless women. They know the stable-talk and the slang of the betting ring, and of the hunt, but nothing more. The "Kitten," five years ago--she is now 22--was a coryphee in the ballet of a London theatre, at the magnificent salary of fifteen shillings a week, and now she has an annuity of £2,000 settled upon her by a young fool of a lord, who has no better use for his money.

The wardrobe of Alice Gordon, another of the Hetairæ, is valued at £12,000. She is a brilliant horse woman.

[Sidenote: "BABY HAMILTON."]

"Baby Hamilton" is another celebrity of the Half-World. Many stories are told about the recklessness of this girl. She forced her way to a meeting in one of the shires when the hounds were all assembled, and followed the hunt, despite the remonstrances of the master, and regardless of the fact that more than half the ladies who were present left the field on her appearance in a hunting costume. She made a bet while in Paris with a wild young duke that she would get a recognition from the Empress Eugenie. The stake was a thoroughbred of the young duke's which she desired to have for her own use. The bet was made, and while the Empress was riding in the Bois, the "Baby," magnificently dressed and mounted, placed herself in the way of the Empress, and bowed quite reverentially. The Empress looked at her for an instant, and, thinking that it was some English lady of rank, bowed very graciously in return. The young duke--who is, by the way, a relative of the Empress by marriage--saw the salutation. It was too good to keep, and accordingly, before the next night, the "Baby" had to leave Paris, by order of the Prefect of Police.