“Ah, but that is quite different.”

“For you perhaps, chere amie, but not for us.”

However, the poor young prince died suddenly of pneumonia, so the sacrifice would have been in vain.

All the autumn of ’79 was very agitated.  We were obliged to curtail our stay at Bourneville, our country home.  Even though the Chambers were not sitting, every description of political intrigue was going on.  Every day W. had an immense courrier and every second day a secretary came down from the Quai d’Orsay with despatches and papers to sign.  Telegrams came all day long.  W. had one or two shooting breakfasts and the long tramps in the woods rested him.  The guests were generally the notabilities of the small towns and villages of his circumscription,—­mayors, farmers, and small landowners.  They all talked politics and W. was surprised to see how in this quiet agricultural district the fever of democracy had mounted.  Usually the well-to-do farmer is very conservative, looks askance at the very advanced opinions of the young radicals, but a complete change had come over them.  They seemed to think the Republic, founded at last upon a solid basis, supported by honest Republicans, would bring untold prosperity not only to the country, but to each individual, and many very modest, unpretending citizens of the small towns saw themselves conseilleurs generaux, deputies, perhaps even ministers.  It was a curious change.  However, on the whole, the people in our part of the world were reasonable.  I was sorry to go back to town.  I liked the last beautiful days of September in the country.  The trees were just beginning to turn, and the rides in the woods were delightful, the roads so soft and springy.  The horses seemed to like the brisk canter as much as we did.  We disturbed all the forest life as we galloped along—­hares and rabbits scuttled away—­we saw their white tails disappearing into holes, and when we crossed a bit of plain, partridges a long distance off would rise and take their crooked flight across the fields.  It was so still, always is in the woods, that the horses’ feet could be heard a long way off.  It was getting colder (all the country folk predicted a very cold winter) and the wood-fire looked very cheerful and comfortable in my little salon when we came in.

However, everything must end, and W. had to go back to the fight, which promised to be lively.  In Paris we found people wearing furs and preparing for a cold winter.  The house of the Quai d’Orsay was comfortable, well warmed, caloriferes and big fires in all the rooms, and whenever there was any sun it poured into the rooms from the garden.  I didn’t take up my official afternoon receptions.  The session had not begun, and, as it seemed extremely unlikely that the coming year would see us still at the Quai d’Orsay, it was not worth while to embark upon that dreary function.  I was at home every afternoon after five—­had tea in my little blue salon, and always had two or three people to keep