The Duc d’Enghien and his aide-de-camp were forwarded with the utmost speed to Paris; the remainder of us were imprisoned at Strasbourg. What became of my companions I know not; but I was sent on, along with a number of others, about a month later, to Nancy, to be tried by a military commission. I may mention it here as a singular fact illustrating the secrecy of the period, that it was not till long after this time I learned the terrible fate of the poor Prince de CondÉ. Had I known it, it is more than probable that I should have utterly despaired of my own safety. The dreadful story of Vincennes—the mock trial, and the midnight execution, are all too well known to my readers; nor is it necessary I should refer to an event on which I myself can throw no new light.

That the sentence was determined on before his arrest—and that the grave was dug while the victim was still sleeping the last slumber before ‘the sleep that knows not waking’—the evidences are strong and undeniable. But an anecdote which circulated at the time, and which, so far as I know, has never appeared in print, would seem to show that there was complicity, at least, in the crime, and that the secret was not confined to the First Consul’s breast.

On that fatal night of the 20th March, Talleyrand was seated at a card-table at Caulaincourt’s house at Paris. The party was about to rise from play, when suddenly the ‘pendule’ on the chimney-piece struck two. It was in one of those accidental pauses in the conversation when any sound is heard with unusual distinctness. Talleyrand started as he heard it, and then turning to Caulaincourt, whispered, ‘Yes; ‘tis all over now!’—words which, accidentally overheard, without significance, were yet to convey a terrible meaning when the dreadful secret of that night was disclosed.

If the whole of Europe was convulsed by the enormity of this crime—the foulest that stains the name of Bonaparte—the Parisians soon forgot it in the deeper interest of the great event that was now approaching—the assumption of the Imperial title by Napoleon.

The excitement on this theme was so great and absorbing, that nothing else was spoken or thought of. Private sorrows and afflictions were disregarded and despised, and to obtrude one’s hardships on the notice of others, seemed, at this juncture, a most ineffable selfishness. That I, a prisoner, friendless and unknown as I was, found none to sympathise with me, or take interest in my fate, is, therefore, nothing extraordinary. In fact, I appeared to have been entirely forgotten; and though still in durance, nothing was said either of the charge to be preferred against me, nor the time when I should be brought to trial.

Giacourt, an old lieutenant of the marines, and at that time Deputy-Governor of the Temple, was kind and good-natured towards me, occasionally telling of the events which were happening without, and giving me the hope that some general amnesty would, in all likelihood, liberate all those whose crimes were not beyond the reach of mercy. The little cell I occupied (and to Giacourt’s kindness I owed the sole possession of it) looked out upon the tall battlements of the outer walls, which excluded all view beyond, and thus drove me within myself for occupation and employment. In this emergency, I set about to write some notices of my life—some brief memoirs of those changeful fortunes which had accompanied me from boyhood. Many of those incidents which I relate now, and many of those traits of mind or temper that I recall, were then for the first time noted down, and thus graven on my memory.

My early boyhood, my first experience as a soldier, the campaign of the ‘Schwarzwald,’ Ireland, and Genoa, all were mentioned; and writing as I did solely for myself, and my own eyes, I set down many criticisms on the generals, and their plans of campaign, which, if intended for the inspection of others, would have been the greatest presumption and impertinence. And in this way Moreau, Hoche, MassËna, and even Bonaparte, came in for a most candid and impartial criticism.

How Germany might have been conquered; how Ireland ought to have been invaded; in what way Italy should have been treated; and lastly, the grand political error of the seizure of the Duc d’Enghien, were subjects that I discussed and determined with consummate boldness and self-satisfaction. I am almost overwhelmed with shame, even now, as I think of that absurd chronicle, with its rash judgments, its crude opinions, and its pretentious decisions.

So fascinated had I become with my task, that I rose early to resume it each morning, and used to fall asleep cogitating on the themes for the next day, and revolving within myself all the passages of interest I should commemorate. A man must have known imprisonment to feel all the value that can be attached to any object, no matter how mean or insignificant, that can employ the thoughts, amuse the fancy, or engage the affections. The narrow cell expands under such magic, the barred casement is a free portal to the glorious sun and the free air; the captive himself is but the student bending over his allotted task. To this happy frame of mind had I come, without a thought or a wish beyond the narrow walls at either side of me, when a sad disaster befell me. On awaking one morning, as usual, to resume my labour, my manuscript was gone! the table and writing materials, all had disappeared, and, to increase my discomfiture, the turnkey informed me that Lieutenant Giacourt had been removed from his post, and sent off to some inferior station in the provinces.

I will not advert to the dreary time which followed this misfortune, a time in which the hours passed on unmeasured and almost unfelt. Without speculation, without a wish, I passed my days in a stupid indolence akin to torpor. Had the prison doors been open, I doubt if I should have had the energy to make my escape. Life itself ceased to have any value for me, but somehow I did not desire death. I was in this miserable mood when the turnkey awoke me one day as I was dozing on my bed. ‘Get up, and prepare yourself to receive a visitor,’ said he. ‘There’s an officer of the staff without, come to see you’; and as he spoke, a young, slightly formed man, entered, in the uniform of a captain, who, making a sign for the turnkey to withdraw, took his seat at my bedside.

‘Don’t get up, monsieur; you look ill and weak, so pray let me not disturb you,’ said he, in a voice of kindly meaning.

‘I’m not ill,’ said I, with an effort—but my hollow utterance and my sunken cheeks contradicted my words; ‘but I have been sleeping; I usually doze at this hour.’

‘The best thing a man can do in prison, I suppose,’ said he, smiling good-naturedly.

‘No, not the best,’ said I, catching up his words too literally. ‘I used to write the whole day long, till they carried away my paper and my pens.’

‘It is just of that very thing I have come to speak, sir,’ resumed he. ‘You intended that memoir for publication?’

‘No; never.’

‘Then for private perusal among a circle of friends?’

‘Just as little. I scarcely know three people in the world who would acknowledge that title.’

‘You had an object, however, in composing it?’

‘Yes; to occupy thought; to save me from—from——’

I hesitated, for I was ashamed of the confession that nearly burst from me, and, after a pause, I said, ‘from being such as I now am!’

‘You wrote it for yourself alone, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Unprompted; without any suggestion from another?’

‘Is it here,’ said I, looking around my cell, ‘is it here that I should be likely to find a fellow-labourer?’

‘No; but I mean to ask, were the sentiments your own, without any external influence, or any persuasions from others?’

‘Quite my own.’

‘And the narrative is true?’

‘Strictly so, I believe.’

‘Even to your meeting with the Due d’Enghien. It was purely accidental?’

‘That is, I never knew him to be the duke till the moment of his arrest.’

‘Just so; you thought he was merely a Royalist noble. Then, why did you not address a memoir to that effect to the Minister?’

‘I thought it would be useless; when they made so little of a CondÉ, what right had I to suppose they would think much about me?’

‘If he could have proved his innocence——’ He stopped, and then in an altered voice said—‘But as to this memoir; you assume considerable airs of military knowledge in it, and many of the opinions smack of heads older than yours.’

‘They are, I repeat, my own altogether; as to their presumption, I have already told you they were intended solely for my own eye.’

‘So that you are not a Royalist?’

‘No,’

‘Never were one?’

‘Never.’

‘In what way would you employ yourself if set at liberty to-day?’

I stared, and felt confused; for however easy I found it to refer to the past, and reason on it, any speculation as to the future was a considerable difficulty.

‘You hesitate; you have not yet made up your mind, apparently.’

‘It is not that; I am trying to think of liberty, trying to fancy myself free—but I cannot!’ said I, with a weary sigh. ‘The air of this cell has sapped my courage and my energy—a little more will finish the ruin!’

‘And yet you are not much above four or five-and-twenty years of age?’

‘Not yet twenty!’ said I.

‘Come, come, Tiernay—this is too early to be sick of life!’ said he, and the kind tone touched me so that I burst into tears. They were bitter tears, too; for while my heart was relieved by this gush of feeling, I was ashamed at my own weakness. ‘Come, I say,’ continued he, ‘this memoir of yours might have done you much mischief—happily it has not done so. Give me the permission to throw it in the fire, and, instead of it, address a respectful petition to the head of the state, setting forth your services, and stating the casualty by which you were implicated in Royalism. I will take care that it meets his eye, and, if possible, will support its prayer. Above all, ask for reinstalment in your grade, and a return to the service. It may be, perhaps, that you can mention some superior officer who would vouch for your future conduct.’

‘Except Colonel Mahon——’

‘Not the Colonel Mahon who commanded the 13th Cuirassiers?’

‘The same.’

‘That name would little serve you,’ said he coldly: ‘he has been placed en retraite some time back; and if your character can call no other witness than him, your case is not too favourable.’ He saw that the speech had disconcerted me, and soon added, ‘Never mind—keep to the memoir; state your case, and your apology, and leave the rest to Fortune. When can you let me have it?’

‘By to-morrow—to-night, if necessary.’

‘To-morrow will do well, and so good-bye. I will order them to supply you with writing materials’; and slapping me good-naturedly on the shoulder, he cried, ‘Courage, my lad!’ and departed.

Before I lay down to sleep that night, I completed my ‘memoir,’ the great difficulty of which I found to consist in giving it that dry brevity which I knew Bonaparte would require. In this, however, I believe I succeeded at last, making the entire document not to occupy one sheet of paper. The officer had left his card of address, which I found was inscribed Monsieur Bourrienne, Rue Lafitte, a name that subsequently was to be well known to the world.

I directed my manuscript to his care, and lay down with a lighter heart than I had known for many a day. I will not weary my reader with the tormenting vacillations of hope and fear which followed. Day after day went over, and no answer came to me. I addressed two notes, respectful, but urgent, begging for some information as to my demand—none came. A month passed thus, when, one morning, the governor of the Temple entered my room, with an open letter in his hand.

‘This is an order for your liberation, Monsieur de Tiernay,’ said he; ‘you are free.’

‘Am I reinstated in my grade?’ asked I eagerly.

He shook his head, and said nothing.

‘Is there no mention of my restoration to the service?’

‘None, sir.’

‘Then what is to become of me—to what end am I liberated?’ cried I passionately.

‘Paris is a great city—there is a wide world beyond it; and a man so young as you are must have few resources, or he will carve out a good career for himself.’

‘Say, rather, he must have few resentments, sir,’ cried I bitterly, ‘or he will easily hit upon a bad one’; and with this, I packed up the few articles I possessed, and prepared to depart.

I remember it well: it was between two and three o’clock of the afternoon, on a bright day in spring, that I stood on the Quai Voltaire, a very small packet of clothes in a bundle in one hand, and a cane in the other, something short of three louis in my purse, and as much depression in my heart as ever settled down in that of a youth not full nineteen. Liberty is a glorious thing, and mine had been perilled often enough to give me a hearty appreciation of its blessing; but at that moment, as I stood friendless and companionless in a great thoroughfare of a great city, I almost wished myself back again within the dreary walls of the Temple, for somehow it felt like home! It is true, one must have had a lonely lot in life before he could surround the cell of a prison with such attributes as these. Perhaps I have more of the catlike affection for a particular spot than most men; but I do find that I attach myself to walls with a tenacity that strengthens as I grow older, and, like my brother parasite, the ivy, my grasp becomes more rigid the longer I cling.

If I know of few merely sensual gratifications higher than a lounge through Paris, at the flood-tide of its population, watching the varied hues and complexions of its strange inhabitants, displaying, as they do, in feature, air, and gesture, so much more of character and purpose than other people, so also do I feel that there is something indescribably miserable in being alone, unknown, and unnoticed in that vast throng, destitute of means for the present, and devoid of hope for the future.

Some were bent on business, some on pleasure; some were evidently bent on killing time till the hour of more agreeable occupation should arrive; some were loitering along, gazing at the prints in shop-windows, or half listlessly stopping to read at book-stalls. There was not only every condition of mankind, from wealth to mendicancy, but every frame of mind, from enjoyment to utter ennui, and yet I thought I could not hit upon any one individual who looked as forlorn and cast-away as myself; however, there were many who passed me that day who would gladly have changed fortune with me, but it would have been difficult to persuade me of the fact in the mood I then was.

At the time I speak of, there was a species of cheap ordinary held in the open air on the quay, where people of the humblest condition used to dine. I need scarcely describe the fare—the reader may conceive what it was, which, wine included, cost only four sous. A rude table without a cloth, some wooden platters, and an iron rail to which the knives and forks were chained, formed the ‘equipage,’ the cookery bearing a due relation to the elegance of these accessories. As for the company, if not polite, it was certainly picturesque—consisting of labourers of the lowest class, the sweepers of crossings, hackney-cabmen out of employ, that poorest of the poor who try to earn a livelihood by dragging the Seine for lost articles, and finally, the motley race of idlers who vacillate between beggary and ballad-singing, with now and then a dash at highway robbery for a ‘distraction’; a class, be it said without paradox, which in Paris includes a considerable number of tolerably honest folk.

The moment was the eventful one in which France was about once more to become a monarchy, and as may be inferred from the character of the people, it was a time of high excitement and enthusiasm. The nation, even in its humblest citizen, seemed to feel some of the reflected glory that glanced from the great achievements of Bonaparte, and his elevation was little other than a grand manifestation of national self-esteem. That he knew how to profit by this sentiment, and incorporate his own with the country’s glory, so that they seemed to be inseparable, is not among the lowest nor the least of the efforts of his genius.

The paroxysm of national vanity, for it was indeed no less, imparted a peculiar character to the period. A vainglorious, boastful spirit was abroad; men met each other with high-sounding gratulations about French greatness and splendour, the sway we wielded over the rest of Europe, and the influence with which we impressed our views over the entire globe.

Since the fall of the monarchy there had been half-a-dozen national fevers! There was the great Fraternal and Equality one; there was the era of classical associations, with all their train of trumpery affectation in dress and manner. Then came the conquering spirit, with the flattering spectacle of great armies; and now, as if to complete the cycle, there grew up that exaggerated conception of ‘France and her Mission,’ an unlucky phrase that has since done plenty of mischief, which seemed to carry the nation into the seventh heaven of overweening self-love.

If I advert to this here, it is but passingly, neither stopping to examine its causes, nor seeking to inquire the consequences that ensued from it, but, as it were, chronicling the fact as it impressed me as I stood that day on the Quai Voltaire, perhaps the only unimpassioned lounger along its crowded thoroughfare.

Not even the ordinary ‘À quatre sous’ claimed exemption from this sentiment. It might be supposed that meagre diet and sour wine were but sorry provocatives to national enthusiasm, but even they could minister to the epidemic ardour, and the humble dishes of that frugal board masqueraded under titles that served to feed popular vanity. Of this I was made suddenly aware as I stood looking over the parapet into the river, and heard the rude voices of the labourers as they called for cutlets À la Caire, potatoes en Mamelouques, or roast beef À la Monte-Notte, while every goblet of their wine was tossed off to some proud sentiment of national supremacy.

Amused by the scene, so novel in all its bearings, I took my place at the table, not sorry for the excuse to myself for partaking so humble a repast.

‘Sacrebleu!’ cried a rough-looking fellow with a red nightcap set on one side of the head, ‘make room there, we have the aristocrates, coming down among us.’

‘Monsieur is heartily welcome,’ said another, making room for me; ‘we are only flattered by such proofs of confidence and esteem.’

‘Ay, parbleu! cried a third. ‘The Empire is coming, and we shall be well bred and well mannered. I intend to give up the river, and take to some more gentlemanlike trade than dredging for dead men.’

‘And I, I’ll never sharpen anything under a rapier or a dress sword for the Court,’ said a knife-grinder; ‘we have been living like canaille hitherto—nothing better.’

‘À l’Empire, À l’Empire!’ shouted half-a-dozen voices in concert; and the glasses were drained to the toast with a loud cheer.

Directly opposite to me sat a thin, pale, mild-looking man, of about fifty, in a kind of stuff robe, like the dress of a village curate. His appearance, though palpably poor, was venerable and imposing—not the less so, perhaps, from its contrast with the faces and gestures at either side of him. Once or twice, while these ebullitions of enthusiasm burst forth, his eyes met mine, and I read, or fancied that I read, a look of kindred appreciation in their mild and gentle glance. The expression was less reproachful than compassionate, as though in pity for the ignorance rather than in reprobation for the folly. Now, strangely enough, this was precisely the very sentiment of my own heart at that moment. I remembered a somewhat similar enthusiasm for republican liberty, by men just as unfitted to enjoy it; and I thought to myself, the Empire, like the Convention, or the Directory, is a mere fabulous conception to these poor fellows, who, whatever may be the rÉgime, will still be hewers of wood and drawers of water to the end of all time.

As I was pondering over this, I felt something touch my arm, and, on turning, perceived that my opposite neighbour had now seated himself at my side, and, in a low, soft voice, was bidding me ‘Good-day.’ After one or two commonplace remarks upon the weather and the scene, he seemed to feel that some apology for his presence in such a place was needful, for he said—

‘You are here, monsieur, from a feeling of curiosity, that I see well enough; but I come for a very different reason. I am the pastor of a mountain village of the ArdÈche, and have come to Paris in search of a young girl, the daughter of one of my flock, who, it is feared, has been carried off, by some evil influence, from her home and her friends, to seek fortune and fame in this rich capital; for she is singularly beautiful, and gifted too; sings divinely, and improvises poetry with a genius that seems inspiration.’

There was a degree of enthusiasm, blended with simplicity, in the poor cure’s admiration of his ‘lost sheep’ that touched me deeply. He had been now three weeks in vain pursuit, and was at last about to turn homeward, discomfited and unsuccessful. ‘Lisette’ was the very soul of the little hamlet, and he knew not how life was to be carried on there without her. The old loved her as a daughter; the young were rivals for her regard.

‘And to me,’ said the pÈre, ‘whom, in all the solitude of my lonely lot, literature and especially poetry, consoles many an hour of sadness or melancholy—to me, she was like a good angel, her presence diffusing light as she crossed my humble threshold, and elevating my thoughts above the little crosses and accidents of daily life.’

So interested had I become in this tale, that I listened while he told every circumstance of the little locality; and walking along at his side, I wandered out of the city, still hearing of ‘La Marche,’ as the village was called, till I knew the ford where the blacksmith lived, and the miller with the cross wife, and the lame schoolmaster, and Pierre the postmaster, who read out the Moniteur each evening under the elms, even to Jacques Fulgeron the ‘Tapageur,’ who had served at Jemappes, and, with his wounded hand and his waxed moustache, was the terror of all peaceable folk.

‘You should come and see us, my dear monsieur,’ said he to me, as I showed some more than common interest in the narrative. ‘You, who seem to study character, would find something better worth the notice than these hardened natures of city life. Come, and spend a week or two with me, and if you do not like our people and their ways, I am but a sorry physiognomist.’

It is needless to say that I was much flattered by this kind proof of confidence and good-will; and finally it was agreed upon between us that I should aid him in his search for three days, after which, if still unsuccessful, we should set out together for La Marche. It was easy to see that the poor curÉ was pleased at my partnership in the task, for there were several public places of resort—theatres, ‘spectacles,’ and the like—to which he scrupled to resort, and these he now willingly conceded to my inspection, having previously given me so accurate a description of La Lisette, that I fancied I should recognise her amongst a thousand. If her long black eyelashes did not betray her, her beautiful teeth were sure to do so; or, if I heard her voice, there could be no doubt then; and, lastly, her foot would as infallibly identify her as did Cinderella’s.

For want of better, it was agreed upon that we should make the ‘Restaurant À Quatre Sous’ our rendezvous each day, to exchange our confidences and report progress. It will scarcely be believed how even this much of a pursuit diverted my mind from its own dark dreamings, and how eagerly my thoughts pursued the new track that was opened to them. It was the utter listlessness, the nothingness of my life, that was weighing me down; and already I saw an escape from this in the pursuit of a good object. I could wager that the pastor of La Marche never thought so intensely, so uninterruptedly, of Lisette as did I for the four-and-twenty hours that followed! It was not only that I had created her image to suit my fancy, but I had invented a whole narrative of her life and adventures since her arrival in Paris.

My firm conviction being that it was lost time to seek for her in obscure and out-of-the-way quarters of the city, I thought it best to pursue the search in the thronged and fashionable resorts of the gay world, the assemblies and theatres. Strong in this conviction, I changed one of my three gold pieces to purchase a ticket for the opera. The reader may smile at the sacrifice; but when he who thinks four sous enough for a dinner, pays twelve francs for the liberty to be crushed in the crowded parterre of a playhouse, he is indeed buying pleasure at a costly price. It was something more than a fifth of all I possessed in the world, but, after all, my chief regret arose from thinking that it left me so few remaining ‘throws of the dice’ for ‘Fortune.’

I have often reflected since that day by what a mere accident I was present, and yet the spectacle was one that I have never forgotten. It was the last time the First Consul appeared in public, before his assumption of the Imperial title; and at no period through all his great career was the enthusiasm more impassioned regarding him. He sat in the box adjoining the stage—CambacÉrÈs and Lebrun, with a crowd of others, standing and not sitting, around and behind his chair. When he appeared, the whole theatre rose to greet him, and three several times was he obliged to rise and acknowledge the salutations. And with what a stately condescension did he make these slight acknowledgments!—what haughtiness was there in the glance he threw around him! I have often heard it said, and I have seen it also written, that previous to his assumption of the crown, Bonaparte’s manner exhibited the mean arts and subtle devices of a candidate on the hustings, dispensing all the flatteries and scattering all the promises that such occasions are so prolific of. I cannot, of course, pretend to contradict this statement positively; but I can record the impression which that scene made upon me, as decidedly the opposite of this assumption. I have repeatedly seen him since that event, but never do I remember his calm, cold features more impassively stern, more proudly collected, than on that night.

Every allusion of the piece that could apply to him was eagerly caught up. Not a phrase nor a chance word that could compliment, was passed over in silence; and if greatness and glory were accorded, as if by an instinctive reverence, the vast assemblage turned towards him, to lay their homage at his feet. I watched him narrowly, and could see that he received them all as his rightful tribute, the earnest of the debt the nation owed him. Among the incidents of that night, I remember one which actually for the moment convulsed the house with its enthusiasm. One of the officers of his suite had somehow stumbled against Bonaparte’s hat, which, on entering, he had thrown carelessly beside his chair. Stooping down and lifting it up, he perceived to whom it belonged, and then, remarking the mark of a bullet on the edge, he showed it significantly to a general near him. Slight and trivial as was the incident, it was instantly caught up by the parterre. A low murmur ran quickly around; and then a sudden cheer burst forth, for some one remembered it was the anniversary of Marengo! And now the excitement became madness, and reiterated shouts proclaimed that the glory of that day was among the proudest memories of France. For once, and once only, did any trait of feeling show itself on that impassive face. I thought I could mark even a faint tinge of colour in that sallow cheek, as in recognition he bowed a dignified salute to the waving and agitated assembly.

I saw that proud face, at moments when human ambition might have seemed to have reached its limit, and yet never with a haughtier look than on that night I speak of. His foot was already on the first step of the throne, and his spirit seemed to swell with the conscious force of coming greatness.

And Lisette, all this time? Alas, I had totally forgotten her! As the enthusiasm around me began to subside, I had time to recover myself, and look about me. There was much beauty and splendour to admire. Madame Junot was there, and Mademoiselle de BessiÈres, with a crowd of others less known, but scarcely less lovely. Not one, however, could I see that corresponded with my mind-drawn portrait of the peasant beauty; and I scanned each face closely and critically. There was female loveliness of every type, from the dark-eyed beauty of Spanish race, to the almost divine regularity of a Raphaelite picture. There was the brilliant aspect of fashion, too; but nowhere could I see what I sought for; nowhere detect that image which imagination had stamped as that of the beauty of ‘La Marche.’ If disappointed in my great object, I left the theatre with my mind full of all I had witnessed. The dreadful event of Ettenheim had terribly shaken Bonaparte in my esteem; yet how resist the contagious devotion of a whole nation—how remain cold in the midst of the burning zeal of all France? These thoughts brought me to the consideration of myself. Was I, or was I not, any longer a soldier of his army? or was I disqualified for joining in that burst of national enthusiasm which proclaimed that all France was ready to march under his banner? To-morrow I ‘ll wait upon the Minister of War, thought I, or I’ll seek out the commanding officer of some regiment that I know, or at least a comrade; and so I went on, endeavouring to frame a plan for my guidance, as I strolled along the streets, which were now almost deserted. The shops were all closed; of the hotels, such as were yet open were far too costly for means like mine; and so, as the night was calm and balmy with the fresh air of spring, I resolved to pass it out of doors. I loitered then along the Champs-ElysÉes; and at length stretching myself on the grass beneath the trees, lay down to sleep. ‘An odd bedroom enough,’ thought I, ‘for one who has passed the evening at the opera, and who has feasted his ears at the expense of his stomach.’ I remembered, too, another night when the sky had been my canopy in Paris, when I slept beneath the shadow of the guillotine and the Place de GrÈve. ‘Well,’ thought I, ‘times are at least changed for the better since that day; and my own fortunes are certainly not lower.’

This comforting reflection closed my waking memories, and I slept soundly till morning.