into the
palace--this palace that was his birthplace.

The next day Louis appeared with Lafayette on a balcony of the Hotel de
Ville, and these two embraced each other in sight of the multitude.

It is not for me to write a history of those troublous times, but suffice
it to say that the "Citizen King" ruled France probably as well as any
other man could have done. His task was a most difficult one, for he had
to be both king and citizen--to please Royalist and Populist alike.

This sudden turn of the political kaleidoscope was a pivotal point in the
life of Ary Scheffer. So long as the Duke of Orleans was a simple country
gentleman, Scheffer was the intimate friend of the family, but how could
the King of France admit into his family circle a mere low-born painter?
Certainly not they who are descended from kings!

Orders were issued by the government to Scheffer to paint certain
pictures, and vouchers reached him from official sources, but he was
made to understand that friendship with the household of a king was not
for him. Possibly he had been too much mixed up with the people in a
political way! The favor of the populace is a thing monarchs jealously
note, as mariners on a lee shore watch the wind.

The father of Louis Philippe was descended from a brother of Louis the
Great, while on his mother's side he was a direct descendant of the great
monarch and Madame de Montespan. Such an inbred claim to royalty was
something of which to boast, but at the same time Louis Philippe was
painfully sensitive as to the blot on the 'scutcheon.

The Princess Marie knew the slender tenure by which her father held his
place, and although her heart was wrung by the separation from her lover,
she was loyal to duty as she saw it, and made no sign that might
embarrass the Citizen King.

Arnold and Henri Scheffer were each married, and working out careers. Ary
and his mother lived together, loving and devoted. And into the keeping
of this mother had come a grandchild--a beautiful girl-baby. They called
her name Cornelie. About the mother of Cornelie the grandmother was not
curious. It was enough to know that the child was the child of her son,
and upon the babe she lavished all the loving tenderness of her great,
welling, mother heart. She had no words but those of gentleness and love
for the son that had brought this charge to her. And did she guess that
this child would be the sustaining prop for her son when she, herself,
was