not long before, had been thrown into
company with _les enfans de France_, as the royal children are called,
informed me that it was Mademoiselle d'Artois, the sister of the heir
presumptive. He had given me a favourable account of the children, whom
he represented as both lively and intelligent, and I changed my position
a little, to get a better look of the face of this little personage, who
was not twenty feet from the spot where we stood. My movement attracted
her attention; and, after looking down a moment into the small area in
which we were enclosed, she disappeared. Presently a lady looked over
the balustrade, and our Englishman seemed to be on tenter-hooks. Some
thirty or forty French gathered round us immediately, and I presume it
was thought none but loyal subjects could manifest so much desire to
gaze at the family, especially as one or two of the French clapped the
little princess, whose head now appeared and disappeared again, as if
she were earnestly pressing something on the attention of those within
the pavilion. In a moment the form of a pale and sickly-looking boy was
seen, the little girl, who was a year or two older, keeping her place at
his side. The boy was raised on the knee of a melancholy-looking and
rather hard-featured female of fifty, who removed his straw hat in order
to salute us. "These are the Dauphine and the Duc de Bordeaux,"
whispered my companion, who knew the person of the former by sight. The
Dauphine looked anxiously, and I thought mournfully, at the little
cluster we formed directly before her, as if waiting to observe in what
manner her nephew would be received. Of course my friend and myself, who
were in the foreground, stood uncovered; as gentlemen we could not do
less, nor as _foreign_ gentlemen could we very well do more. Not a
Frenchman, however, even touched his hat! On the other hand, the
Englishman straddled his legs, gave a wide sweep with his beaver, and
uttered as hearty a hurrah as if he had been cheering a member of
parliament who gave gin in his beer. The effect of this single,
unaccompanied, unanswered cheer, was both ludicrous and painful. The
poor fellow himself seemed startled at hearing his own voice amid so
profound a stillness, and checking his zeal as unexpectedly as he had
commenced its exhibition, he looked furiously around him and walked
surlily away. The Dauphine followed him with her eyes. There was no
mistaking his gaitered limbs, dogged mien, and flori