In a few moments we were between two files of soldiers, and entering the gates of the palace.  I called out to the driver and told him to stop; but I was too late, for we were now in front of the massive doors of the palace, and a liveried servant opened the cab door, bowed, and asked if I had an engagement with the President.  You may easily “guess” his surprise when I told him no.  In my best French, I asked the cabman why he had come to the palace, and was answered, “You told me to.”  By this time a number had gathered round, all making inquiries as to what I wanted.  I told the driver to retrace his steps, and, amid the shrugs of their shoulders, the nods of their heads, and the laughter of the soldiers, I left the Elysee without even a sight of the President’s mustaches for my trouble.  This was only one of the many mistakes I made while in Paris.

LETTER VII.

The Chateau at Versailles—­Private apartments of Marie Antoinette—­The Secret Door—­Paintings of Raphael and David—­Arc de Triomphe—­Beranger the Poet.

VERSAILLES, August 31.

Here I am, within ten leagues of Paris, spending the time pleasantly in viewing the palace and grounds of the great Chateau of Louis XIV.  Fifty-seven years ago, a mob, composed of men, women, and boys, from Paris, stood in front of this palace and demanded that the king should go with them to the capital.  I have walked over the same ground where the one hundred thousand stood on that interesting occasion.  I have been upon the same balcony, and stood by the window from which Maria Antoinette looked out upon the mob that were seeking her life.

Anxious to see as much of the palace as I could, and having an offer of the company of my young friend, Henry G. Chapman, to go through the palace with me, I set out early yesterday morning, and was soon in the halls that had often been trod by Royal feet.  We passed through the private, as well as the public, apartments, through the secret door by which Marie Antoinette had escaped from the mob of 1792, and viewed the room in which her faithful guards were killed, while attempting to save their Royal mistress.  I took my seat in one of the little parlour carriages that had been used in days of yore for the Royal children; while my friend, H.G.  Chapman, drew me across the room.  The superb apartments are not now in use.  Silence is written upon these walls, although upon them are suspended the portraits of men of whom the world has heard.

Paintings, representing Napoleon in nearly all his battles, are here seen; and wherever you see the Emperor, there you will also find Murat, with his white plume waving above.  Callot’s painting of the battle of Marengo, Hue’s of the retaking of Genoa, and Bouchat’s of the 18th Brumaire, are of the highest order; while David has transmitted his fame to posterity, by his splendid painting of the Coronation of Napoleon and Josephine in Notre Dame.  When