on during the Second Empire between the sovereign and
those placed very near him on the throne. When Alphonse Daudet
came to Paris to make a name in literature, the Duc de Morny
offered him a position as secretary. "Before I accept it,
monsieur le duc, I had better tell you that I am a Legitimist,"
replied the future novelist. "Don't let that trouble you,"
laughed De Morny; "so am I to a certain extent, and the Empress
is even more of a Legitimist than I am."--EDITOR.]

The first thing that struck one in the Duc de Nemours was the vast
extent of his general information and the marvellous power of memory.
Eugene Lami had just returned from London, and, in the exercise of his
profession, had come in contact with some members of the oldest
families. The mere mention of the name sufficed as the introduction to
the general and anecdotal history of such a family, and I doubt whether
the best official at Herald's College could have dissected a pedigree as
did the Duc de Nemours. Eugene Lami was at that time engaged upon
designing some new uniforms for the army, many of which disappeared only
after the war of 1870. He lived in the Rue des Marais, the greater part
of which was subsequently demolished to make room for the Boulevard de
Magenta, and in the same house with two men whose names have become
immortal, Honore de Balzac and Paul Delaroche. I have already spoken of
both, but I did not mention the incident that led to the painter's
acquaintance with the novelist, an incident so utterly fanciful that the
boldest farce-writer would think twice before utilizing it in a play. It
was told to me by Lami himself. One morning, as he and Paul Delaroche
were working, there was a knock at the door, and a stout individual,
dressed in a kind of monastic garb, appeared on the threshold. Delaroche
remembered that he had met him on the staircase, but neither knew who he
was, albeit that Balzac's fame was not altogether unknown to them.
"Gentlemen," said the visitor, "I am Honore Balzac, a neighbour and a
confrere to boot. My chattels are about to be seized, and I would ask
you to save a remnant of my library."

Of course, the request was granted. The books were stowed away behind
the pictures; and, after that, Balzac often dropped in to have a chat
with them, but neither Delaroche nor Lami, the latter least of all, ever
conceived a sincere liking for the great novelist. Their c