Every year there is a great review of the Paris garrison (thirty thousand men) by the President of the Republic, at Longchamp, on the 14th of July, the national fete—­the day of the storming of the Bastile.  It is a great day in Paris—­one of the sights of the year—­and falling in midsummer the day is generally beautiful and very warm.  From early dawn all the chairs and benches along the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne are crowded with people waiting patiently for hours to see the show.  There is not a seat to be had at Longchamp.  Unless one arrives very early the tribunes are packed, and the President’s box very crowded, as he invites the diplomatic corps and the ministers and their wives on that day.  The troops are always received with much enthusiasm, particularly the artillery, dragging their light field-pieces and passing at a gallop—­also the battalion of St. Cyr, the great French military school.  The final charge of the cavalry is very fine.  Masses of riders come thundering over the plain, the general commanding in front, stopping suddenly as if moved by machinery, just opposite the President’s box.  I went very regularly as long as W. was in office, and always enjoyed my day.  There was an excellent buffet in the salon behind the box, and it was pleasant to have a cup of tea and rest one’s eyes while the long columns of infantry were passing—­the regular, continuous movement was fatiguing.  All the ambassadors and foreigners were very keen about the review, paying great attention to the size of the men and horses and their general equipment.  As long as Marshal MacMahon was President of the Republic, he always rode home after the review down the Champs-Elysees—­in full uniform, with a brilliant staff of foreign officers and military attaches.  It was a pretty sight and attracted great attention.  Some of the foreign uniforms are very striking and the French love a military show.

[Illustration:  Marshal MacMahon.]

For many years after the war the German military attache returned from the review unobserved in a shut carriage, couldn’t run the risk of an angry or insulting word from some one in the crowd, and still later, fifteen years after the war, when W. was ambassador in England, I was godmother of the daughter of a German-English cousin living in London.  The godfather was Count Herbert Bismarck, son of the famous chancellor.  At the time of the christening I was in France, staying with some friends in the country.  The son of the house had been through the war, had distinguished himself very much, and they were still very sore over their reverses and the necessity of submitting to all the little pin-pricks which came at intervals from Germany.  Bismarck sent me a telegram regretting the absence of the godmother from the ceremony.  It was brought to me just after breakfast, while we were having our coffee.  I opened it and read it out, explaining that it was from Bismarck to express his regret for my absence.  There was a dead silence, and then the mistress of the house said to me:  “C’est tres desagreable pour vous, chere amie, cette association avec Bismarck.”