In the evening of the day following that on which Jerome, recalled from
exile, returned to Paris, he had vainly waited for his secretary, and
feeling bored and lonely, went out. It was at the end of summer (1847).
He was staying at the house of his daughter, Princess Demidoff, which
was off the Champs-Elysées.
He crossed the Place de la Concorde, looking about him at the statues,
obelisk and fountains, which were new to the exile who had not seen
Paris for thirty-two years. He continued along the Quai des Tuileries.
I know not what reverie took possession of his soul. Arrived at the
Pavillon de Flore, he entered the gate, turned to the left, and began to
walk up a flight of stairs under the arch. He had gone up two or three
steps when he felt himself seized by the arm. It was the gatekeeper who
had run after him.
“Hi! Monsieur, monsieur, where are you going?”
Jerome gazed at him in astonishment and replied:
“Why, to my apartments, of course!”
Hardly had he uttered the words, however, when he awoke from his dream.
The past had bewitched him for a moment. In recounting the incident to
me he said:
“I went away shamefacedly, and apologizing to the porter.”