art of the Galerie d'Orleans in the Palais-Royal
was completed. The unsightly wooden booths had been taken down, and the
timber must have been decidedly worth a small fortune. Several
contractors made very handsome offers for it, but Louis-Philippe (then
Duc d'Orleans) refused to sell it. It was to be distributed among the
poor of the neighbourhood for fuel for the ensuing winter, which
threatened to be a severe one. One day, when the duke was inspecting the
works in company of his steward, an individual, who was standing a
couple of yards away, began to shout at the top of his voice, "Vive
Louis-Philippe!" "Go and see what the fellow wants, for assuredly he
wants something," said the duke, who was a Voltairean in his way, and
had interpreted the man's enthusiasm aright. Papa Sournois was one of
those nondescripts for whom even now there appear to be more resources
in the French capital than elsewhere. At the period in question he
mainly got his living by selling contre-marques (checks) at the doors of
the theatre. He had heard of the duke's intention with regard to the
wood, hence his enthusiastic cry of "Vive Louis-Philippe!" A cartload of
wood was sent to his place; papa Sournois converted it into money, and
got drunk with the proceeds for a fortnight. When the steward, horribly
scandalized, told the duke of the results of his benevolence, the latter
merely laughed, and sent for the wife, who made her appearance
accompanied by a young brood of five. The duke gave her a five-franc
piece, and told her to apply to the concierge of the Palais-Royal for a
similar sum every day during the winter months. Of course, five francs a
day was not as much as a drop of water out of the sea when we consider
Louis-Philippe's stupendous income, and yet when the Tuileries were
sacked in 1848, documents upon documents were found, compiled with the
sole view of saving a few francs per diem out of the young princes'
"keep."

"I am so sick of the word 'fraternity,'" said Prince Metternich, after
his return from France, "that, if I had a brother, I should call him
cousin." Though it was to the strains of the Marseillaise that
Louis-Philippe had been conducted to the Hotel-de-Ville on the day when
Lafayette pointed to him as "the best of all republics," a time came
when Louis-Philippe got utterly sick of the Marseillaise.

But what was he to do, seeing that his attempt at introducing a new
national hymn had utterly failed? The mob refused t