g the soldiers and the crowd, scarcely divided from
one another even by an imaginary line. It was not a pleasant crowd,
though to my great surprise there were a great many more decently
dressed persons in it than I could have expected, so I stayed on. About
half an hour after the King re-entered the Tuileries, I noticed two
gentlemen elbow their way through the serried masses. I had no
difficulty in recognizing the one in civilian's clothes. Though he was
by no means so famous as he became afterwards, there was hardly a
Parisian who would not have recognized him on the spot. His portrait had
been drawn over and over again, at least as many times as that of the
King, and it is a positive fact that nurses frightened their babies with
it. He was the ugliest man of the century. It was M. Adolphe
Cremieux.[45] His companion was in uniform. I learnt afterwards that it
was General Gourgaud, but I did not know him then except by name, and in
connection with his polemics with the Duke of Wellington, in which the
latter did not altogether behave with the generosity one expects from an
English gentleman towards a fallen foe. As they passed, the old soldier
must have been recognized, because not one, but at least a hundred cries
resounded, "Vive la grande armee! Vive l'Empereur!" In after years I
thought that these cries sounded almost prophetic, though I am pretty
sure that those who uttered them had not the slightest hope of, and
perhaps not even a desire for, a Napoleonic restoration; at any rate,
not the majority. There is one thing, however, which could not have
failed to strike the impartial observer during the next twenty years. I
have seen a good many riots, small and large, during the Second Republic
and the Second Empire. "Seditious cries," as a matter of course, were
freely shouted. I have never heard a single one of "Vivent les
D'Orleans!" or "Vivent les Bourbons!" I have already spoken more than
once about the powerful influence of the Napoleonic legend in those
days; I shall have occasion to refer to it again and again when speaking
about the nephew of the first Napoleon.

[Footnote 45: The author is slightly mistaken. The two ugliest
men in France in the nineteenth century were Andrieux, who
wrote "Les Etourdis," and Littre; but Cremieux ran them very
hard.--EDITOR.]

Cremieux and Gourgaud could not have been inside the Tuileries more than
a quarter of an hour when they rushed out