Another time, a young man, named Von der Sulhn, journeyed from Dresden to Paris; unless you are told, you could scarcely imagine for what purpose.  There are people who travel for amusement, for business, for a change of air, or merely to be able to say they have been at such and such a place.  Some go abroad for instruction, others, perhaps, with no other object in view than to eat frogs in Paris, bouillabaisse at Marseilles, a polenta at Milan, macaroni at Naples, an olla podrida in Spain, or conscoussou in Africa.  Von der Sulhn travelled to assassinate the Emperor.  Like Scaevola and Brutus, he, no doubt, imagined the crime would hand down his name to posterity.  In youth, all of us have erred in judgment more or less.  Sulhn thought the Emperor ought to be slain.  Unfortunately for him, the Duke of Rovigo, the then minister of police, entertained a different opinion.  He thought, in point of fact, that the Emperor ought not to be killed:  hence it was that the young Saxon found himself in chains, and that the Duke went to ask the Emperor what he should do with him.  We ought, however, to mention that the young man, in his character of an enlightened German, testified his regret that he had not succeeded in carrying out his project, and protested that, in the event of regaining his liberty, he would renew the attempt.  “Never mind,” said the Emperor to the duke, “the young man’s age is his excuse.  Do not make the affair public, for, if it is bruited about, I must punish the headstrong youth, which I have no wish to do.  I should be sorry to plunge a worthy family into grief by immolating such a scapegrace.  Send him to Vincennes, give him some books to read, and write to his mother.”  In 1814, the young man obtained his liberty, his family, and his Germany, and it is to be hoped that he afterwards became a respectable pater-familias, a sort of Aulic councillor, and that, during the troublesome times in the land of Sauerkraut, he was before, and not behind, the barricades of his darling patria.  If he be dead, it is to be supposed that, instead of lying a headless trunk ignominiously in a ditch, or in the unconsecrated cemetery of Clamort, he is reposing entire in the paternal tomb.

On the 15th of March, 1815, the Emperor landed at Cannes—­he had returned from the island of Elba.  On the beach he was joined by one man, at Antibes by a company, at Digne by a battalion, at Gap by a regiment (that of Labedoyer), at Grenoble by an army.  The hearts of the soldiers of France went to him like steel to the loadstone—­first a drop, and then a torrent; the Empire, like a snowball, increased as it progressed.  At Lyons, the Count of Artois, the setting sun, is obliged to go out of one gate the moment that Napoleon, the rising sun, comes in at another.  Smiles, orations, triumphal arches, and even the discourses that had been prepared to welcome the Bourbons, were used to congratulate their successor on his return.  Cockades and flags were altered to suit the occasion, by inserting a stripe