rief for a perfect union of souls," said he laughing; "for I was
liberated within a week, while he was left behind for, I think, the
better part of a year."

"But his talents?" was the question down the table.

"Gentlemen," said the old man, "my experience in life has always made
me judge of talents by circumstances. If, for example, I find that a
man has the talent exactly fitted for his position, I give him credit
for all--he had the talent for making the Bastile endurable, and I
required no other. But there were times when graver topics varied our
pleasantry, and he exhibited very various intelligence, a practical
experience of the chief European courts, and, I am sorry to say, a
very striking contempt for their politics and their politicians alike.
He was especially indignant at the selfish perfidy with which the late
king had given him up to the ignorant jealousy of the minister, and
looked forward to the new reign with a resolute, and sometimes a
gloomy determination to be revenged. If that man is a republican, it
is the Bastile that has made him one; and if he ever shall have a fair
opportunity of displaying his genius, unless a cannonball stops his
career I should conceive him capable of producing a powerful
impression on Europe."

The conversation might again have become stormy but for the entrance
of a patrol, for whom a vacant space at the table had been left. Forty
or fifty fine tall fellows now came rushing into the room, flinging
down shakos, knapsacks, and sabres, and fully prepared to enjoy the
good cheer provided for them. I heard the names of the first families
of France among those privates--the Montmorencies, the Lamaignons, the
Nivernois, the Rochefoucaults, the De Noailles, "familiar as household
words." All was good-humour again. They had a little adventure in
scaring away a corps of the rustic national guards who, to expedite
their escape, had flung away their arms, which were brought in as good
prize. The festivity and frolic of youth, engaged in a cause which
conferred a certain dignity even on their _tours de page_, renewed the
pleasantry of the night. We again had the _chansons_; and I recollect
one, sung with delicious taste by a handsome Italian-faced youth, a
nephew of the writer, the Duc de Nivernois.

The duke had requested a ringlet from a beautiful woman. She answered,
that she had just found a grey hair among her locks, and could now
give then away no more. The gallant reply was--