While the negotiations are pending, the royal cause becomes every hour more hopeless.  Success has rendered the people less tractable; and the concession implied by the king’s holding out terms to them, has less chance of producing a favourable result.

The populace attempted to force an entrance into the Hotel des Pages, and, having fired through the iron gate, killed a fine youth, the son of General Jacquinot, one of the royal pages, and a protege of the Duc de Guiche.  It was of this general that the Emperor Napoleon said—­“Celui-la est brave tous les jours, en mon absence comme sous mes yeux.”  It is not more than ten days ago, since I met the mother and sister of this promising youth with him at the Duchesse de Guiche’s.  They came to return thanks to her and the duc for the generous protection they had afforded to him; they were elate with joy at his promotion, looked forward to his further advancement, and now—.  My heart bleeds for the poor mother who doted on her son!

Count Alfred d’Orsay, having heard that he had no relations in Paris at this moment, has gone to arrange for the interment of this poor youth, who yet scarcely more than a child, has lost his life at but a short distance from the threshold of that door where he had been so often received with kindness.  How glad I am that the duchesse was spared the horror of being so near the scene of this murder, and that she and her children are safe from the reach of personal violence!

The interesting countenance of this fine youth, as I lately saw it, haunts me.  Beaming with affection towards his mother and sister, and with gratitude towards his friends, it was pleasant to behold it; and now,—­how fearful is the change produced in so brief a space!  That bereaved mother and fond sister will never more look on that face so dear;—­before the fatal intelligence can have reached them, he will have been consigned to the grave, and will owe to a stranger those last rites which they little dream are now performing.

The number of persons killed during the last three days has excited much less interest in my feelings than the death of this poor youth.  I cannot picture to my mind’s eye any other distinct image among the slain.  They present only a ghastly mass, with all the revolting accompaniments of gaping wounds and blood-stained garments, I never saw them in life,—­knew not the faces that will be steeped in tears, or convulsed in agony at their deaths; but this poor boy, so young, so fair, and so beloved, and his fond mother and gentle sister seem ever to stand before me!

I remember reading, long years ago, the example given of a person recounting all the details of a great battle, in which hundreds were slain, and the listeners hearing the account unmoved, until the relater described one individual who had been killed, and drew a vivid picture, when those who had heard of the death of hundreds without any deeper emotion than general pity, were melted to tears.  This is my case, with regard to the poor young page, cut off in the morning of his life; for, having his image present to my mind, his death seems more grievous to me than that of hundreds whom I have never seen.