The French seemed perfectly indifferent on the occasion.  “Do as you like,” seemed to be the feeling.  “Have an empire if you think proper.  It is no concern of ours.  We are glad to have got rid of our own.”

The day on which the deputies offered their great gift to King William was clear and bright.  Before the prefecture at Versailles was planted the Prussian royal standard,—­a black cross on a ground of gold and purple.  Round the gateway stood all the Prussian soldiers who were off duty, waiting to see the deputies pass in.  There was no music, but shots boomed from Paris from time to time.  There was to be thenceforward one Germany, and one flag for the land of so many princes, who all waived their claims in favor of the greatest among them,—­he who now stood conqueror in a foreign land.

The chief room of the prefecture was filled with men in bright uniforms, with helmets, ribbons, and decorations of all kinds.  The king stood near the fireplace, surrounded by princes and generals.  The president of the North German Confederation appointed to address him had once before, in 1849, offered the imperial crown to a Prussian king, who had declined it.  Since then events had ripened.  This time the king accepted what his countrymen desired he should receive from them.  But he declined to assume the title of emperor until the South German people should express their acquiescence, as the South German princes had already done.

We may contrast the conduct of the Prussian king with the unwisdom of the French emperor.  Both Napoleon III. and the Emperor William governed as autocrats; but with what different men they surrounded themselves, and how differently they were served in their hour of need!  Yet Napoleon III. was lavish of rewards to his adherents, while the Emperor William was, to an excessive degree, chary of recompense.  He seemed to feel that each man owed his all to his kaiser and his country, and that when he had given all, he could only say, in the words of Scripture:  “I have but done that it was my duty to do.”

When Jules Favre went to Versailles to negotiate with the German emperor and his chancellor for the surrender of Paris, he was accompanied, on his second and subsequent visits, by a young officer of ordnance, Count d’Herisson, who attended him as a sort of aide-de-camp.  Nothing could be less alike than the two men:  Jules Favre, of the upper middle class in life, deeply sorrowful, oppressed by his responsibility, and profoundly conscious of his situation; and the young man whose birth placed him in the ranks of the jeunesse doree, pleased to find himself in plenty and in good society, and allowing his spirits to rise with even more than national buoyancy, when, for a moment, the pressure of trouble was removed.  D’Herisson published an account of his experience while at the Prussian headquarters, which gives so vivid a picture of Count Bismarck, the great chancellor of the German Empire, that I here venture to repeat some parts of his narrative.  He says,—­