I had now been a year in Paris, without returning, or wishing to return, to London.  A letter now and then informed me of the state of those who still drew my feelings towards England.  But I was in the centre of all that awoke, agitated, or alarmed Europe; and, compared with the glow and rapidity of events in France, the rest of Europe appeared asleep, or to open its eyes solely when some new explosion shook it from its slumber.

My position, too, was a matchless school for the learner in diplomacy.  France shaped the politics of the Continent; and I was present in the furnace where the casting was performed.  France was the stage to which every eye in Europe was turned, whether for comedy or tragedy; and I was behind the scenes.  But the change was at hand.

One night I found an individual, of a very marked appearance, waiting for me at my hotel.  His countenance was evidently Jewish, and he introduced himself as one of the secret police of the ministry.  The man handed me a letter—­it was from Mordecai, and directed to be given with the utmost secrecy.  It was in his usual succinct and rapid style.

“I write this in the midst of a tumult of business.  My friend Mendoza will give you such knowledge and assistance as may be necessary.  France is on the point of an explosion.  Every thing is prepared.  It is impossible that it can be delayed above a week or two, and the only origin of the delay is in the determination to make the overthrow final.  Acquaint your English officials with this.  The monarchy of the Bourbons has signed its death-warrant.  By suffering a legislature to be formed by the votes of the mere multitude, it has put property within the power of all beggars; rank has been left at the mercy of the rabble; and the church has been sacrificed to please a faction.  Thus the true pillars of society have been cut away; and the throne is left in the air.  Mendoza will tell you more.  The train is already laid.  A letter from a confidential agent tells us that the day is fixed.  At all events, avoid the mine.  There is no pleasure in being blown up, even in company with kings.”

A postscript briefly told me—­that his daughter sent her recollections; that Clotilde was still indisposed; La Fontaine giddier than ever; and, as the proof of his own confidence in his views, that he had just sold out 100,000 three per cent consols.

My first visit next morning was to the British embassy.  But the ambassador was absent in the country, and the functionary who had been left in charge was taking lessons on the guitar, and extremely unwilling to be disturbed by matters comparatively so trifling as the fate of dynasties.  I explained, but explained in vain.  The hour was at hand when his horses were to be at the door for a ride in the Bois de Boulogne.  I recommended a ride after the ambassador.  It was impossible.  He was to be the escort of a duchess; then to go to a dinner at the Russian embassy, and was under engagements to three balls in the course of the evening.  Nothing could be clearer than that such duties must supersede the slight concerns of office.  I left him under the hands of his valet, curling his ringlets, and preparing him to be the admiration of mankind.