ghostly pictures, theatrical tableaux, such as he
had often gazed at from the royal box in the Paris
theatre! We, too, can sue them as well as he.

TABLEAU FIRST.

A snatch of Elysium! There was surely one
happy night to look back to, that in the hall of
the theatre at Versailles—that pretty playhouse
which strangers and holiday-folk now go down
to admire. There has been a weight of care over
the great palace, for the monster dungeon has
been destroyed; the people are growing strangely
insolent and even dangerous; and the little
prattling child keeps down its spirits, seeing
how dejected and anxious seem the king and
queen. When, of that first of October night,
he is dressed smartly and taken down with
mamma and papa into the theatre, where
the newly arrived officers are dining, he goes
silent and wondering. What a blaze of light—
what cries of joy and enthusiasm; for the
officers are all standing up in wild excitement,
having sprung to their feet on their entrance,
and are shouting "Vive le Roi," and swearing
eternal fidelity. The vision of that beautiful
mamma and her children has had much to do
with this. They will die for that lovely lady.
Down with the vile cockades of the nation, and
trample them under foot! The colour has come
back to her cheeks—the kingly face smiles
benignant. Let us all join—scarlet-coated
Swiss, Guard National in the Hogarthian sugar-
loaf soldiers' hats, and officers of the Royal
Flanders Regiment—and, drawing swords,
drink frantically to our dear sovereigns. I see
them all now—in an old print—standing up
and pledging that beautiful lady—and I see the
orchestra in cocked-hats, high up in a corner,
just striking up the sweet air, "O Richard!
O my king! though all the world abandon thee!"
Halcyon night! We may be sure there was
joy and soft serenity up-stairs in the palace bed-
chambers as it was talked over. There were sweet
tranquil dreams. All would yet be well. We are
strong in the love of those dear French hearts!

An ugly twinge of recollection. Four days
after, the savage fishwomen are storming the
splendid palace. They are in the salons, the
gardens, everywhere! And then followed the
hot, dusty, weary procession to Paris. Then are
brought back in triumph the baker, the baker's
wife, and the baker's boy. Little Dauphin
wonders why they should call him a baker's boy.

TABLEAU SECOND.

Very often he must have been back again, on
that hot June day—twentieth of the month—
when he and his little sister noticed that papa
and mamma were whispering, and seemed
agitated; and the confidential ladies flitted to and
fro, and whispered secretly with their majesties.
Sharp, penetrating child as he was, we may be
sure he put many penetrating questions to that
sub-governess of his, and lady in waiting, who
took them out for their five o'clock evening walk.
Then, that strange awakening at eleven o'clock,
when the lamps were all lighted, and his drowsy
eyes scarcely able to keep open, saw the room
full of people, and faces bending over him, and his
dear mamma, hurried and agitated, in a travelling-
dress. The good Madame Brunier whispers
that he is to get up, for they are going a
journey, and he is to be very still, like a dear child,
for mamma. And here is a little girl's frock of
brown calico, which he is to put on—no matter
why, he will be told another time. No wonder
he thinks, "They are going to act a comedy."
No matter, he will hear all about it in the morning;
and now he is so dreadfully sleepy that he
lets his head drop on Madame de Neville's
knees, who has sat down on the stairs; and is
dreaming in a moment.

Here is the cool night air and here are the
stars, and we are in the Carrousel court. What
does it all mean? Here are sentries challenging
—and here is the street. Where are we going?
Hush, little Aglaé (strange rechristening that!).
So he turns round, and in a moment is again
asleep on the lady's shoulder.

In an inflammatory journal of the time—now
upon the writer's shelves—appears a print of
this crossing of the Carrousel; coming out within
a week of the transaction, as it might be a cut
in the Illustrated Paris News. The king has a
round "wide-awake" hat and a lantern, the ladies
have the pillow-shaped bonnets and pelisses of
the time, and the fiacre is seen waiting in the
archway with its letter and number conspicuous,
"L16."

When our little prince opens his eyes again,
they are in the huge berline, rumbling and
creaking over the rough stones of some highway
leading from Paris. It is very dark, and the tall
trees lining the road flit by like spectres.
Driver's whip is heard cracking loudly, and we
roll and totter forward at a great speed. No
wonder; we have six posting-horses attached.
Are we indeed going to act a comedy? For
here, crowded together inside, are the Baroness
Korff and her two daughters (of which you,
Aglaé, are one), and her governess, played
by mamma, and a lady's-maid, and a valet,
performed by papa. At any other time we
might laugh. See, papa has even a passport,
with the baroness's name. (We are told that
paper is to be seen to this day; that official
document, with the round letters tumbling
backwards, and the official writing and the seal, and
Louis's own signature.)

Sleep again! Was there ever such a long
night? So chilly, too—such a sense of weary
protraction! Now, indeed, we are roused by
roar of voices, and lanterns flashing in at the
windows, and fierce scowling faces looking so
angry, and we can see, too, that mamma is very
pale and frightened. It is midnight by the
church clock of this little country town that
looks so strange, and here we are all getting
down, and enter a mean house. Soldiers, crowds,
lights, guns, bells ringing, roar—what does it
all mean? But we drop off to sleep again, in a
corner of the room, for we are very tired, and
wake up next morning back again in Paris with
the sun shining, at the very gate of the Tuileries.
Still in the great coach, but despair in