Tortoni’s, the last survivor of whose founders died only the other day, has its historical reminiscences. Therein is to be found the salon, known as the “blue salon,” once hallowed by the occupancy of M. de Talleyrand. The window is still pointed out at which the eminent diplomatist used to sit surveying the crowds that thronged the Boulevards, with his usual fine and cynical smile, like a Mephistopheles of the nineteenth century. A little later, and one has a vision of a young man of short stature, elegantly dressed, who every day or two rides up to door or window, springs from his horse, calls for a particular kind of ice, which he imbibes with a sort of nervous haste, and then disappears. This little dandy, always in a hurry, alert, nervous and sharp-eyed, is a future ruler of the nation: it is M. Thiers. Around Tortoni’s there hovers too the souvenir of that other gracious and graceful dandy, king of fashion in his day, the count D’Orsay. It was at a breakfast at Tortoni’s that the preliminaries were arranged for the famous duel wherein D’Orsay appeared as the champion of the Virgin Mary. Some irreverent jester having made some slighting remark respecting the Virgin, D’Orsay took the matter up and called the speaker to account. “For,” said the count, “the Virgin is a woman, and as such ought not to be slandered with impunity.”

Pass to the Café Anglais, that hypocrite of the Boulevards, whitewashed, decent, outwardly respectable, yet whose windows are ablaze all night long in the Carnival season, and whose latest legend is the tradition of “Big 16.” “Big 16″ is a private cabinet in the entresol, numbered after the fashion that has given it its title, and famed as being the scene of the orgies of the young duke de Grammont-Caderousse, that maddest of the mad viveurs of the Second Empire, and his friend the prince of Orange. The latter still maintains his reputation in Paris as the most dissipated of European princes. Twice has he essayed to win the hand of an English princess, or rather his high-minded and virtuous mother made the effort in his behalf, but neither his prospective heirship to the crown of Holland nor his Protestantism has availed to gain for him a royal English bride. He is known among the society that he most affects by the sobriquet of Citron (Lemon), bestowed upon him by the duke de Grammont-Caderousse at one of the little suppers of the day. The duke continued to call the prince Monseigneur, to which His Royal Highness objected, declaring that he wished all formality to be laid aside respecting his birth and title.

“Is that so?” cried the duke gayly. “Then, Citron, pass me the cheese.”

And the nickname has survived the duke who gave it and the government under which it was given. Sometimes, after one of the masked balls, a pink domino at the Café Americain will call for champagne, with the announcement, “M. Citron pays,” without for a moment imagining that she is speaking of the heir to a throne.

Quoted from: Gilman C. Fisher: “The Paris Cafés.” In: Lippincott’s Magazine, Vol. 20, August 1877.