At the present day we have in Paris a Russian colony, a Spanish colony, a Levantine colony, an American colony.
The foreigners have already conquered from us the greater part of the Champs-Elysees and the Boulevard Malesherbes; they advance, they extend their outworks; we retreat, pressed back by the invaders; we are obliged to expatriate ourselves.

We have begun to found Parisian colonies in the plains of Passy, in the plain of Monceau, in quarters which formerly were not Paris at all, and which are not quite even now.

Among the foreign colonies, the richest, the most populous, the most brilliant, is the American colony.

There is a moment when an American feels himself rich enough, a Frenchman never.

The American then stops, draws breath, and while still husbanding the capital, no longer spares the income.