He should have added that the grisette _pur sang_ is to be found nowhere except in Paris; and (still a step farther) nowhere in Paris save between the Pont Neuf and the Barriere d'Enfer.
There she reigns; there (ah! let me use the delicious present tense--let me believe that I still live in Arcadia!)--there she lights up the old streets with her smile; makes the old walls ring with her laughter; flits over the crossings like a fairy; wears the most coquettish of little caps and the daintiest of little shoes; rises to her work with the dawn; keeps a pet canary; trains a nasturtium round her window; loves as heartily as she laughs, and almost as readily; owes not a sou, saves not a centime; sews on Adolphe's buttons, like a good neighbor; is never so happy as when Adolphe in return takes her to Tivoli or the Jardin Turc; adores _galette, sucre d'orge_, and Frederick Lemaitre; and looks upon a masked ball and a debardeur dress as the summit of human felicity.
_Vive la grisette_! Shall I not follow many an illustrious example and sing my modest paean in her praise?
Frown not, august Britannia! Look not so severely askance upon my poor little heroine of the Quartier Latin! Thinkest thou because thou art so eminently virtuous that she who has many a serviceable virtue of her own, shall be debarred from her share in this world's cakes and ale?
_Vive la grisette_! Let us think and speak no evil of her.

"Elle ne tient au vice que par un rayon, et s'en eloigne par les mille autres points de la circonference sociale." The world sees only her follies, and sees them at first sight; her good qualities lie hidden in the shade.

Is she not busy as a bee, joyous as a lark, helpful, pitiful, unselfish, industrious, contented?
How often has she not slipped her last coin into the alms-box at the hospital gate, and gone supperless to bed?
How often sat up all night, after a long day's toil in a crowded work-room, to nurse Victorine in the fever?
How often pawned her Sunday gown and shawl, to redeem that coat without which Adolphe cannot appear before the examiners to-morrow morning?
Granted, if you will, that she has an insatiable appetite for sweets, cigarettes, and theatrical admissions--shall she not be welcome to her tastes?
And is it her fault if her capacity in the way of miscellaneous refreshments partakes of the nature of the miraculous--somewhat to the inconvenience of Adolphe, who has overspent his allowance?
Supposing even that she may now and then indulge (among friends) in a very modified can-can at the Chaumiere--what does that prove, except that her heels are as light as her heart, and that her early education has been somewhat neglected?
But I am writing of a world that has vanished as completely as the lost Pleiad.

The Quartier Latin of my time is no more.

The Chaumiere is no more.