When I lived in Paris, I had no regularity in my wanderings, no method
in my sight-seeing, following a perhaps wayward fancy, and enjoying
myself the better for it.

One beautiful morning I sauntered out from my hotel, with a friend, who
was also a stranger in Paris.

"Where shall we go?" he asked.

"To a little cemetery called Picpus, far away from here."

"Will it be worth our while to go so far to see a small cemetery?"

"You shall see when we get there."

We went part of the way by an omnibus, and walked the rest, and when the
morning was nearly spent, we stood before No. 15, Rue de Picpus. The
place was once a convent of the order of St. Augustine, but is now
occupied by the "Women of the Sacred Heart." Within the convent, which
we entered, there is a pretty Doric chapel with an Ionic portal. There
was an air of privacy about, the little chapel which pleased me, and a
chasteness in its architecture which could not fail to please any one
who loves simple beauty. Within the walls of the court, there is a very
small private cemetery, but though private, the porter, if you ask him
politely, will let you enter, especially if you tell him you are from
America.

"Here is the cemetery which we have come to see," I said to my friend.