* Louis Philippe.
The King told me that Talleyrand said to him one day:
“You will never be able to do anything with Thiers, although he would
make an excellent tool. He is one of those men one cannot make use of
unless one is able to satisfy them. Now, he never will be satisfied. It
is unfortunate for him, as for you, that in our times, he cannot be made
a cardinal.”
A propos of the fortifications of Paris, the King told me how the
Emperor Napoleon learned the news of the taking of Paris by the allies.
The Emperor was marching upon Paris at the head of his guard. Near
Juvisy, at a place in the Forest of Fontainebleau where there is an
obelisk (“that I never see without feeling heavy at heart,” remarked the
King), a courier on his way to meet Napoleon brought him the news of the
capitulation of Paris. Paris had been taken. The enemy had entered it.
The Emperor turned pale. He hid his face in his hands and remained thus,
motionless, for a quarter of an hour. Then, without saying a word, he
turned about and took the road back to Fontainebleau.
General Athalin witnessed this scene and recounted it to the King.
July, 1844.
A few days ago the King said to Marshal Soult (in presence of others):
“Marshal, do you remember the siege of Cadiz?”
“Rather, sire, I should think so. I swore enough before that cursed
Cadiz. I invested the place and was forced to go away as I had come.”
“Marshal, while you were before it, I was inside it.”
“I know, sire.”
“The Cortes and the English Cabinet offered me the command of the
Spanish army.”
“I remember it.”
“The offer was a grave one. I hesitated long. Bear arms against France!
For my family, it is possible; but against my country! I was greatly
perplexed. At this juncture you asked me, through a trusty person, for
a secret interview in a little house situated on the Cortadura, between
the city and your camp. Do you remember the fact, Monsieur the Marshal?”
“Perfectly, sire; the day was fixed and the interview arranged.”
“And I did not turn up.”
“That is so.”
“Do you know why?”
“I never knew.”
“I will tell you. As I was preparing to go to meet you, the commander
of the English squadron, apprised of the matter, I know not how, dropped
upon me brusquely and warned me that I was about to fall into a trap;
that Cadiz being impregnable, they despaired of seizing me, but that at
the Cortadura I should be arrested by you; that the Emperor wished to
make of the Duke d’Orleans a second volume of the Duke d’Enghien, and
that you would have me shot immediately. There, really,” added the King
with a smile, “your hand on your conscience, were you going to shoot
me?”
The Marshal remained silent for a moment, then replied, with a smile not
less inexpressible than that of the King:
“No, sire; I wanted to compromise you.”
The subject of conversation was changed. A few minutes later the Marshal
took leave of the King, and the King, as he watched him go, said with a
smile to the person who heard this conversation:
“Compromise! compromise! To-day it is called compromise. In reality, he
would have shot me!”
August 4, 1844.
Yesterday the King said to me:
“One of my embarrassments at present, in all this affair of the
University and the clergy, is M. Affre.” *
* Archbishop Affre was shot and killed in the Faubourg
Saint Antoine on September 25, 1848, while trying to stop
the fighting between the troops and insurgents.
“Then why, sire,” said I, “did you appoint him?”
“I made a mistake, I admit. I had at first appointed to the
archbishopric of Paris the Cardinal of Arras, M. de la Tour d’Auvergne.”
“It was a good choice,” I observed.
“Yes, good. He is insignificant. An honest old man of no account. An
easy-going fellow. He was much sought after by the Carlists. Greatly
imposed upon. His whole family hated me. He was induced to refuse. Not
knowing what to do, and being in haste, I named M. Affre. I ought to
have been suspicious of him. His countenance is neither open nor frank.
I took his underhand air for a priestly air; I did wrong. And then, you
know, it was in 1840. Thiers proposed him to me, and urged me to appoint
him. Thiers is no judge of archbishops. I did it without sufficient
reflection. I ought to have remembered what Talleyrand said to me one
day: ‘The Archbishop of Paris must always be an old man. The see is
quieter and becomes vacant more frequently.’ I appointed M. Affre, who
is young; it was a mistake. However, I will re-establish the chapter
of St. Denis and appoint as primate of it the Cardinal de la Tour
d’Auvergne. The Papal Nuncio, to whom I spoke of my project just now,
laughed heartily at it, and said: ‘The Abbé Affre will commit some
folly. Should he go to Rome the Pope will receive him very badly. He
has acted pusillanimously and blunderingly on all occasions since he has
been an archbishop. An archbishop of Paris who has any wit ought always
to be on good terms with the King here and the Pope yonder.’”
August, 1844.
A month or two ago the King went to Dreux. It was the anniversary of
the death of the Duke d’Orleans. The King had chosen this day to put the
coffins of his relatives in the family vault in order.
Among the number was a coffin that contained all the bones of the
princes of the House of Orleans that the Duchess d’Orleans, mother
of the King, had been able to collect after the Revolution, when the
sepulchre was violated and they were dispersed. The coffin, placed in a
separate vault, had recently been smashed in by the fall of an arch.
The debris of the arch, stones and plaster, had become mingled with the
bones.
The King had the coffin brought and opened before him. He was alone
in the vault with the chaplain and two aides-de-camp. Another coffin,
larger and stronger, had been prepared. The King himself, with his own
hands, took, one after the other, the bones of his ancestors from the
broken coffin and arranged them carefully in the new one. He would not
permit any one else to touch them. From time to time he counted the
skulls and said: “This is Monsieur the Duke de Penthièvre. This is
Monsieur the Count de Beaujolais.” Then to the best of his ability and
as far as he was able to he completed each group of bones.
This ceremony lasted from nine o’clock in the morning until seven
o’clock in the evening without the King taking either rest or
nourishment.
August, 1844.
Yesterday, the 15th, after having dined at M. Villemain’s, who lives in
a country house near Neuilly, I called upon the King.
The King was not in the salon, where there were only the Queen, Madame
Adelaide and a few ladies, among them Mme. Firmin-Rogier, who is
charming. There were many visitors, among others the Duke de Brogue and
M. Rossi, who were of the dinner party at which I had been present, M.
de Lesseps, who lately distinguished himself as consul at Barcelona, M.
Firmin-Rogier and the Count d’Agout.
I bowed to the Queen, who spoke to me at length about the Princess de
Joinvile, who was delivered the day before yesterday, and whose baby
arrived on the very day the news of the bombardment of Tangier by its
father was received. It is a little girl. The Princess de Joinvile
passes the whole day kissing her and saying: “How pretty she is!” with
that sweet southern accent which the raillery of her brothers-in-law has
not yet caused her to lose.
While I was talking to the Queen, the Duchess d’Orleans, dressed in
black, came in and sat beside Madame Adelaide, who said to her: “Good
evening, dear Helene.”
A moment afterwards, M. Guizot, in black, wearing a chain of
decorations, with a red ribbon in his buttonhole and the badge of the
Legion of Honour on his coat, and looking pale and grave, crossed the
salon. I grasped his hand as he passed and he said:
“I have sought you vainly during the past few days. Come and spend a day
with me in the country. We have a lot to talk about. I am at Auteuil,
No. 4, Place d’Agueneau.”
“Will the King come to-night?” I asked.
“I do not think so,” he replied. “He is with Admiral de Mackau. There is
serious news. He will be occupied all the evening.”
Then M. Guizot went away.
It was nearly ten o’clock, and I also was about to take my departure
when one of Madame Adelaide’s ladies of honour, sent by the Princess,
came and told me that the King desired to speak with me and requested
that I would remain. I returned to the salon, which had become almost
empty.
A moment later, as ten o’clock was striking, the King came in. He wore
no decorations and had a preoccupied air. As he passed by he said to me:
“Wait until I have gone my round; we shall have a little more time when
everybody has left. There are only four persons here now and I have only
four words to say to them.”
In truth, he only tarried a moment with the Prussian Ambassador and
M. de Lesseps, who had to communicate to him a letter from Alexandria
relative to the strange abdication of the Pacha of Egypt.
Everybody took leave, and then the King came to me, thrust his arm in
mine and led me into the large anteroom where he seated himself, and
bade me be seated, upon a red lounge which is between two doors opposite
the fireplace. Then he began to talk rapidly, energetically, as though a
weight were being lifted from his mind:
“Monsieur Hugo, I am pleased to see you. What do you think of it all?
All this is grave, yet it appears graver than it really is. But in
politics, I know, one has sometimes to take as much into account that
which appears grave as that which is grave. We made a mistake in taking
this confounded protectorate. * We thought we were doing something
popular for France, and we have done something embarrassing for the
world. The popular effect was mediocre; the embarrassing effect is
enormous. What did we want to hamper ourselves with Tahiti (the King
pronounced it Taëte) for? What to us was this pinch of tobacco seeds
in the middle of the ocean? What is the use of lodging our honour four
thousand leagues away in the box of a sentry insulted by a savage and a
madman? Upon the whole there is something laughable about it. When all
is said and done it is a small matter and nothing big will come of it.
Sir Robert Peel has spoken thoughtlessly. He has acted with schoolboy
foolishness. He has diminished his consideration in Europe. He is a
serious man, but capable of committing thoughtless acts. Then he does
not know any languages. Unless he be a genius there are perforce gaps in
the ideas of a man who is not a linguist. Now, Sir Robert has no genius.
Would you believe it? He does not know French. Consequently he does
not understand anything about France. French ideas pass before him like
shadows. He is not malevolent, no; he is not open, that is all. He has
spoken without reflection. I judged him to be what he is forty years
ago. It was, too, forty years ago that I saw him for the first time.
He was then a young man and secretary of the Earl of--(I did not quite
catch the name. The King spoke quickly). I often visited that house. I
was then in England. When I saw young Peel I felt sure that he would
go a long way, but that he would stop. Was I mistaken? There are
Englishmen, and of the highest rank, who do not understand Frenchmen a
bit. Like that poor Duke of Clarence, who afterwards was William IV. He
was but a sailor. One must beware of the sailor mind, as I often say to
my son Joinville. He who is only a sailor is nothing on land. Well,
this Duke of Clarence used to say to me: ‘Duke d’Orleans, a war between
France and England is necessary every twenty years. History shows it.’
I would reply: ‘My dear duke, of what use are people of intelligence if
they allow mankind to do the same foolish things over and over again?’
The Duke of Clarence, like Peel, did not know a word of French.
* The protectorate of Tahiti.
“What a difference between these men and Huskisson! You know, Huskisson
who was killed on a railway. He was a masterly man, if you like. He knew
French and liked France. He had been my comrade at the Jacobins’ Club. I
do not say this in bad part. He understood everything. If there were
in England now a man like him, he and I would ensure the peace of the
world.--Monsieur Hugo, we will do it without him. I will do it alone.
Sir Robert Peel will reconsider what he has said. Egad! he said that!
Does he even know why or how?
“Have you seen the English Parliament? You speak from your place,
standing, in the midst of your own party; you are carried away; you
say more often than not what others think instead of what you think
yourself. There is a magnetic communication. You are subjected to it.
You rise (here the King rose and imitated the gesture of an orator
speaking in Parliament). The assembly ferments all round and close
to you; you let yourself go. On this side somebody says: ‘England has
suffered a gross insult;’ and on that side: ‘with gross indignity.’ It
is simply applause that is sought on both sides. Nothing more. But this
is bad. It is dangerous. It is baleful. In France our tribune which
isolates the orator has many advantages.
“Of all the English statesmen, I have known only one who was able to
withstand this influence of assemblies. He was M. Pitt. M. Pitt was a
clever man, although he was very tall. He had an air of awkwardness
and spoke hesitatingly. His lower jaw weighed a hundredweight. Hence
a certain slowness which forcibly brought prudence into his speeches.
Besides, what a statesman this Pitt was! They will render justice to
him one of these days, even in France. Pitt and Coburg are still being
harped upon. But it is a childish foolishness that will pass. M. Pitt
knew French. To carry on politics properly we must have Englishmen who
know French and Frenchmen who know English.
“Look here, I am going to England next month. I shall be very well
received: I speak English. And then, Englishmen appreciate the fact that
I have studied them closely enough not to detest them. For one always
begins by detesting the English. This is an effect of the surface. I
esteem them, and pride myself upon the fact. Between ourselves, there
is one thing I apprehend in going to England, and that is, a too warm
welcome. I shall have to elude an ovation. Popularity there would render
me unpopular here. But I must not get myself badly received either.
Badly received there, taunted here. Oh! it is not easy to move when one
is Louis Philippe, is it, Monsieur Hugo?
“However, I will endeavour to manage it better than that big stupid
the Emperor of Russia, who went riding full gallop in search of a fall.
There is an addle-pate for you. What a simpleton! He is nothing but a
Russian corporal, occupied with a boot-heel and a gaiter button. What an
idea to arrive in London on the eve of the Polish ball! Do you think I
would go to England on the eve of the anniversary of Waterloo? What is
the use of running deliberately into trouble? Nations do not derange
their ideas for us princes.
“Monsieur Hugo! Monsieur Hugo! intelligent princes are very rare. Look
at this Pacha of Egypt, who had a bright mind and who abdicates, like
Charles V., who, although he was not without genius, committed the same
foolish action. Look at this idiotic King of Morocco! What a job to
govern amid this mob of bewildered Kings. They won’t force me into
committing the great mistake of going to war. I am being pushed, but
they won’t push me over. Listen to this and remember it: the secret of
maintaining peace is to look at everything from the good side and at
nothing from the bad point of view. Oh! Sir Robert Peel is a singular
man to speak so wildly. He does not know all our strength. He does not
reflect!
“The Prince of Prussia made a very true remark to my daughter at
Brussels last winter: ‘What we envy France, is Algeria. Not on account
of the territory, but on account of the war. It is a great and rare
good fortune for France to have at her doors a war that does not trouble
Europe and which is making an army for her. We as yet have only review
and parade soldiers. When a collision occurs we shall only have soldiers
who have been made by peace. France, thanks to Algiers, will have
soldiers made by war.’ This is what the Prince of Prussia said, and it
was true.
“Meanwhile, we are making children, too. Last month it was my daughter
of Nemours, this month it is my daughter of Joinville. She has given me
a princess. I would have preferred a prince. But, pish! in view of the
fact that they are trying to isolate my house among the royal houses of
Europe future alliances must be thought of. Well, my grandchildren will
marry among themselves. This little one who was born yesterday will not
lack cousins, nor, consequently, a husband.”
Here the King laughed, and I rose. He had spoken almost without
interruption for an hour and a quarter. I had only said a few words here
and there. During this sort of long monologue Madame Adelaide passed as
she retired to her apartments. The King said to her: “I will join you
directly,” and he continued his conversation with me. It was nearly
half-past eleven when I quitted the King.
It was during this conversation that the King said to me:
“Have you ever been to England?”
“No, sire.”
“Well, when you do go--for you will go--you will see how strange it
is. It resembles France in nothing. Over there are order, arrangement,
symmetry, cleanliness, wellmown lawns, and profound silence in the
streets. The passers-by are as serious and mute as spectres. When, being
French and alive, you speak in the street, these spectres look back at
you and murmur with an inexpressible mixture of gravity and disdain:
‘French people!’ When I was in London I was walking arm-in-arm with my
wife and sister. We were conversing, not in a too loud tone of voice,
for we are well-bred persons, you know; yet all the passers-by,
bourgeois and men of the people, turned to gaze at us and we could hear
them growling behind us: ‘French people! French people!’”
September 5, 1844.
The King rose, paced to and fro for a few moments, as though violently
agitated, then came and sat beside me and said:
“Look here, you made a remark to Villemain that he repeated to me. You
said to him:
“‘The trouble between France and England a propos of Tahiti and
Pritchard reminds me of a quarrel in a café between a couple of
sub-lieutenants, one of whom has looked at the other in a way the latter
does not like. A duel to the death is the result. But two great nations
ought not to act like a couple of musketeers. Besides, in a duel to the
death between two nations like England and France, it is civilization
that would be slain.’
“This is really what you said, is it not?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“I was greatly struck by your observation, and this very evening I
reproduced it in a letter to a crowned head, for I frequently write
all night long. I pass many a night doing over again what others have
undone. I do not say anything about it. So far from being grateful to me
they would only abuse me for it. Oh! yes, mine is hard work indeed.
At my age, with my seventy-one years, I do not get an instant of real
repose either by day or by night. I am always unquiet, and how can it be
otherwise when I feel that I am the pivot upon which Europe revolves?”
September 6, 1844.
The King said to me yesterday:
“What makes the maintenance of peace so difficult is that there are two
things in Europe that Europe detests, France and myself--myself even
more than France. I am talking to you in all frankness. They hate me
because I am Orleans; they hate me because I am myself. As for France,
they dislike her, but would tolerate her in other hands. Napoleon was a
burden to them; they overthrew him by egging him on to war of which he
was so fond. I am a burden to them; they would like to throw me down by
forcing me to break that peace which I love.”
Then he covered his eyes with his hands, and leaning his head back upon
the cushions of the sofa, remained thus for a space pensive, and as
though crushed.
September 6, 1844.
“I only met Robespierre in society once,” said the King to me. “It was
at a place called Mignot, near Poissy, which still exists. It belonged
to a wealthy cloth manufacturer of Louviers, named M. Decréteau. It
was in ninety-one or two. M. Decréteau one day invited me to dinner
at Mignot. I went. When the time came we took our places at table. The
other guests were Robespierre and Pétion, but I had never before seen
Robespierre. Mirabeau aptly traced his portrait in a word when he said
that his face was suggestive of that of ‘a cat drinking vinegar.’ He was
very gloomy, and hardly spoke. When he did let drop a word from time to
time, it was uttered sourly and with reluctance. He seemed to be vexed
at having come, and because I was there.
“In the middle of the dinner, Pétion, addressing M. Decréteau,
exclaimed: ‘My dear host, you must get this buck married!’ He pointed to
Robespierre.
“‘What do you mean, Pétion?’ retorted Robespierre.
“‘Mean,’ said Pétion, ‘why, that you must get married. I insist upon
marrying you. You are full of sourness, hypochondria, gall, bad humour,
biliousness and atrabiliousness I am fearful of all this on our account.
What you want is a woman to sweeten this sourness and transform you into
an easy-going old fogey.’
“Robespierre tossed his head and tried to smile, but only succeeded in
making a grimace. It was the only time,” repeated the King, “that I
met Robespierre in society. After that I saw him in the tribune of the
Convention. He was wearisome to a supreme degree, spoke slowly, heavily
and at length, and was more sour, more gloomy, more bitter than ever. It
was easy to see that Pétion had not married him.”
September 7, 1844.
Said the King to me last Thursday:
“M. Guizot has great qualities and immense defects. (Queerly enough,
M. Guizot on Tuesday had made precisely the same remark to me about the
King, beginning with the defects.) M. Guizot has in the highest degree,
and I esteem him for it profoundly, the courage of his unpopularity
among his adversaries; among his friends he lacks it. He does not know
how to quarrel momentarily with his partisans, which was Pitt’s great
art. In the affair of Tahiti, as in that of the right of search, M.
Guizot is not afraid of the Opposition, nor of the press, nor of the
Radicals, nor of the Carlists, nor of the Legitimists, nor of the
hundred thousand howlers in the hundred thousand public squares of
France; he is afraid of Jacques Lefebvre. What will Jacques Lefebvre
say? And Jacques Lefebvre is afraid of the Twelfth Arrondissement. * What
will the Twelfth Arrondissement say? The Twelfth Arrondissement does not
like the English: we must stand firm against the English; but it does
not like war: we must give way to the English. Stand firm and give way.
Reconcile that. The Twelfth Arrondissement governs Jacques Lefebvre,
Jacques Lefebvre governs Guizot; a little more and the Twelfth
Arrondissement will govern France. I say to Guizot: ‘What are you afraid
of? Have a little pluck. Have an opinion.’ But there they all stand,
pale and motionless and make no reply. Oh! fear! Monsieur Hugo, it is a
strange thing, this fear of the hubbub that will be raised outside!
It seizes upon this one, then that one, then that one, and it goes the
round of the table. I am not a Minister, but if I were, it seems to
me that I should not be afraid. I should see the right and go straight
towards it. And what greater aim could there be than civilization
through peace?”
* Twelfth District of Paris.
The Duke d’Orleans, a few years ago, recounted to me that during the
period which followed immediately upon the revolution of July, the King
gave him a seat at his council table. The young Prince took part in the
deliberations of the Ministers. One day M. Merilhou, who was Minister of
Justice, fell asleep while the King was speaking.
“Chartres,” said the King to his son, “wake up Monsieur the Keeper of
the Seals.”
The Duke d’Orleans obeyed. He was seated next to M. Merilhou, and nudged
him gently with his elbow. The Minister was sleeping soundly; the Prince
recommenced, but the Minister slept on. Finally the Prince laid his hand
upon M. Merilhou’s knee. The Minister awoke with a start and exclaimed:
“Leave off, Sophie, you are tickling me!”
This is how the word “subject” came to be eliminated from the preamble
of laws and ordinances.
M. Dupont de l’Eure, in 1830, was Minister of Justice. On August 7, the
very day the Duke d’Orleans took the oath as King, M. Dupont de l’Eure
laid before him a law to sign. The preamble read: “Be it known and
decreed to all our subjects,” etc. The clerk who was instructed to copy
the law, a hot-headed young fellow, objected to the word “subjects,” and
did not copy it.
The Minister of Justice arrived. The young man was employed in his
office.
“Well,” said the Minister, “is the copy ready to be taken to the King
for signature?”
“No, Monsieur the Minister,” replied the clerk.
Explanations. M. Dupont de l’Eure listened, then pinching the young
man’s ear said, half smilingly, half angrily:
“Nonsense, Monsieur the Republican, you just copy it at once.”
The clerk hung his head, like a clerk that he was, and copied it.
M. Dupont, however, laughingly told the King about it. The King did not
laugh. Everything appeared to be a serious matter at that time. M. Dupin
senior, Minister without a portfolio, had entered the council chamber.
He avoided the use of the word and got round the obstacle. He proposed
this wording, which was agreed to and has always been used since: “Be it
known and decreed to all.”
1847.
The State carriage of Louis Philippe was a big blue coach drawn by eight
horses. The interior was of gold coloured damask. On the doors was the
King’s monogram surmounted by a crown, and on the panels were royal
crowns. The roof was bordered by eight little silver crowns. There was
a gigantic coachman on the box and three lackeys behind. All wore silk
stockings and the tri-colour livery of the d’Orleans.
The King would enter the carriage first and seat himself in the right
hand corner. Then the Duke de Nemours would take his place beside the
King. The three other princes would follow and seat themselves, M. de
Joinville opposite the King, M. de Montpensier opposite M. de Nemours,
and M. d’Aumale in the middle.
The day the King attended Parliament, the grand deputations from both
Houses, twelve peers and twenty-five deputies chosen by lot, awaited
him on the grand staircase of the Palais Bourbon. As the sessions were
nearly always held in winter, it was very cold on the stairs, a biting
wind made all these old men shiver, and there are old generals of the
Empire who did not die as the result of having been at Austerlitz,
at Friedland, at the cemetery at Eylau, at the storming of the grand
redoubt at Moskowa and under the fire of the Scottish squares at
Waterloo, but of having waited in the cold upon these stairs.
The peers stood to the right and the deputies to the left, leaving
the middle of the stairs clear. The staircase was partitioned off with
hangings of white drill with blue stripes, which was a poor protection
against draughts. Where are the good and magnificent tapestries of Louis
XIV. They were indeed royal; wherefore they were taken down. Drill is
a common material and more pleasing to the deputies. It charms and it
freezes them.
The Queen arrived first with the princesses, but without the Duchess
d’Orleans, who came separately with the Count de Paris. These ladies
walked quickly upstairs, bowing to right and left, without speaking, but
graciously, followed by a swarm of aides-de-camp and grim turbaned
old women whom M. de Joinville called “the Queen’s Turks”--Mmes. de
Dolokieu, de Chanaleilles, etc.
At the royal session of 1847, the Queen gave her arm to the Duchess de
Montpensier. The princess was muffled up on account of the cold. I
could see only a big red nose. The three other princesses walked behind,
chatting and laughing. M. Anatole de Montesquiou came next in the much
worn uniform of a major-general.
The King arrived about five minutes after the Queen; he walked upstairs
even more quickly than she had done, followed by the princes running
like schoolboys, and bowed to the peers on the right and the deputies
on the left. He tarried a moment in the throne-room and exchanged a few
greetings with the members of the two deputations. Then he entered the
large hall.
The speech from the throne was written on parchment, on both sides of
the sheet, and usually filled four pages. The King read it in a firm,
well modulated voice.
Marshal Soult was present, resplendent with decorations, sashes,
and gold lace, and complaining of his rheumatism. M. Pasquier, the
Chancellor, did not put in an appearance. He had excused himself on the
plea of the cold and of his eighty years. He had been present the year
before. It was the last time.
In 1847 I was a member of the grand deputation. While I strolled about
the waiting room, conversing with M. Villemain about Cracow, the Vienna
treaties and the frontier of the Rhine, I could hear the buzzing of the
groups around me, and scraps of conversation reached my ears.
COUNT DE LAGRANGE.--Ah! here comes the Marshal (Soult).
BARON PEDRE LACAZE.--He is getting old.
VISCOUNT CAVAIGNAC.--Sixty-nine years!
MARQUIS DR RAIGECOURT.--Who is the dean of the Chamber of Peers at
present?
DUKE DE TREVISE.--M. de Pontecoulant, is he not?
MARQUIS DE LAPLACE.--NO, President Boyer. He is ninety-two.
PRESIDENT BARTHE.--He is older than that.
BARON D’OBERLIN.--He no longer comes to the Chamber.