The Count now proceeds to inveigh in general terms against what he describes as the atrocious conduct of the unruly rabble—­the devastation, pillage, and other enormities of which they were guilty.  Having concluded this diatribe, he goes on with his narrative as follows:  “Indeed the passion of mischief had taken such strong possession of the minds of all—­the temptation was so widely thrown open wherever one went—­that even I felt a touch of the desire; and, as I passed along the library hall, where a most splendid stock of books had been thrown on the floor, spying among many precious treasures a beautifully ornamented little volume, which, to say nothing of its gay appearance, promised to occupy no great room in the pocket, with the conviction that I was doing a good action, I picked it up.  On opening it I found that it was neither a bible, nor a poem, nor a congurare (_?_), as I had anticipated, but simply a pocket memorandum-book in which his Majesty had been accustomed to note his parties de chasse, and the numbers of game he killed.  I immediately thrust it into my pocket, and have since preserved it as a keepsake—­but shall be most happy to restore it to the owner, should that august personage at any time feel disposed to claim it.  Would that all the rest of the many articles that were this day pilfered were held as sacred, and ready to be as punctually surrendered!

“Tolerably tired at last of looking on the grim faces that surrounded us, we agreed to make our retreat; and descended into the garden, intending to pass out by the gate leading to the Quays.  Here, however, we were met by a figure, at the sight of which we found it almost impossible to restrain our risibility.  It was a man keeping watch at the gate as a sentinel, dressed for the most part as we commonly see the masters of chimney-sweeps, without a vestige of either shoes or shirt, and what were intended for coat and trousers having very doubtful pretensions to those designations—­but, to make amends for this condition of his general habiliments, having a highly polished musket in his hand, a most splendid sword dangling by his side, and on his head a superb Marshal’s hat!  ’Ou allez vous?’ was the imperious demand of this extraordinary looking personage.  ‘Ou nous voulons’ was the instant and haughty reply of my friend M. The fellow, not being accustomed to such insubordination, ordered us to take off our hats to show whether we carried anything away with us.  M. at this would have struck him down but for the sudden appearance of six men, whose looks and dress were not much better than those of the sentinel.  These men, on being informed of our hauteur (as it was termed), insisted on our helping them, by way of penalty for our offence, to carry off the dead.  This was more than I, with all my disposition to forbearance, could submit to; so, addressing myself to the ugliest of them, who seemed to be the commanding officer of the party, I told him scornfully and in good French,