have dared to prophesy fifty years earlier that a second
Emperor should some day sit upon the throne of France? Who would have
ventured to foretell that this capricious people, loathing as they did
in 1815 the name of Buonaparte, should one day choose by universal
suffrage another of that family to rule over them?

Few of those assembled in the great tomb were of devout enough mind to
take much heed of the service now proceeding at the altar, where the
priest droned and the incense rose in slow clouds towards the dome. We
all stared at each other freely enough, and in truth the faces of
many, not to mention bright uniforms and brilliant names, warranted
the abstraction from holy thought and fervour. The old soldiers lining
the aisle had fought, some at Inkerman, some at Solferino, some in
Mexico, that land of ill-omen. The generals of all nations, mixing
freely in the crowd, bowed grimly enough to each other. They had met
before.

It was indeed a strange jumble of prince and pauper, friend and foe,
patriot and adventurer. And the face that drew my gaze oftenest was
one as still and illegible now as it was on the morning of January 11,
four years later, when I bowed before it at Chiselhurst.

The Third Napoleon, with eyes that none could read--a quiet,
self-possessed enigma--passed down the aisle between his ranked
soldiers, and the religious part of the day's festivities was over.
Paris promised to be _en fete_ while daylight lasted, and at night a
display of fireworks of unprecedented splendour was to close the
festive celebration. There is no lighter heart than that which beats
within the narrow waistcoat of the little Parisian bourgeois, unless
indeed it be that in the trim bodice of madame his wife; and even
within the church walls we could hear the sound of merriment in the
streets.

When the Emperor had gone we all moved towards the doors of the
church, congratulating each other, embracing each other, laughing and
weeping all in one breath.

One near to me seized my hand.

"You are English!" he cried.

"I am."

"Then embrace me."

We embraced.

"Waterloo"--he called it Vatterlo--"is forgotten. It is buried in the
Crimea," cried this emotional son of Gaul. He was a stout man who had
partaken of garlic at dejeuner.

"It is," I answered.

And we embraced again. Then I got away from him. It was gratifying but
inexpedient to be an Englishman at that moment, and John Turner, whose
clothes were made in