of this quiet home.  To twine her arms lovingly around that dear form, to draw it close to her bosom, to pour out, in a voice broken with tears, a burst of gratitude, was the mission.  In moments when hearts are wrung, we do not practice our grand politeness.  A noble life had been saved, a terrible calamity averted.  The polished manner of the salon was dropped.  A wife spoke, a woman listened.  The visit was already a long one when Jean Palliot took charge of the equipage, and, on leaving, it was into his hand the gentleman thrust a roulette of Napoleons.

“Sir,” cried the indignant coachman, “a soldier of the Grand Army is not a beggar.”

“It is not the gold, but the portraits of his commander I give the soldier of the Grand Army.”

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the now affrighted veteran, “it is Napoleon!—­Vive l’Empereur!”

* * * * *

Of the history of that attempt on the life of Napoleon, the world is fully informed.  That, thanks to a fortunate warning, the Imperial coach was lined with boiler-iron, is well known.  That warning, by direction of her husband, was written by Madame Althie Pontalba, and delivered by me.

That the destructive missiles were manufactured in Birmingham, England, our Minister Plenipotentiary has good cause to remember; but that they were smuggled into Paris in the guise of egg-plants, and deposited in the grass-plot in rear of house No. 30 of that now memorable street, I believe is still a mystery.

That Count Felice Orsini (the man executed) was concealed for weeks, is on record at the Prefecture; but that he assumed the position of a servant, and the name of Marcel, is not.

As for me, I think a great deal, and say nothing; but if the young Pontalba, who now studies type-setting with the Prince Imperial, was not the baby whose clothes I once saw examined at a cafe there is no truth in these “Leaves of an Idler.”

MR. BUTTERBY RECORDS HIS CASE.[A]

J. Moses Butterby, aged 40 years; a licensed broker; nativity, American; temperament, sanguine; habit, slightly obese; constitution, robust.  History of the case as related by himself.

* * * * *

I don’t see how I ever came to be married.  It was certainly the last thing my friends expected of me, and it was the last thing I ever expected of myself; but that I am married, Mrs. J. Moses Butterby, and Master Alphonso Moses Butterby, are both here to testify.