After this little procession had passed away—­you may laugh at it, but upon my word and conscience, Miss Smith, I saw nothing in the course of the day which affected me more—­after this little procession had passed away, the other came, accompanied by gun-banging, flag-waving, incense-burning, trumpets pealing, drums rolling, and at the close, received by the voice of six hundred choristers, sweetly modulated to the tones of fifteen score of fiddlers.  Then you saw horse and foot, jack-boots and bear-skin, cuirass and bayonet, National Guard and Line, marshals and generals all over gold, smart aides-de-camp galloping about like mad, and high in the midst of all, riding on his golden buckler, Solomon in all his glory, forsooth—­Imperial Caesar, with his crown over his head, laurels and standards waving about his gorgeous chariot, and a million of people looking on in wonder and awe.

His Majesty the Emperor and King reclined on his shield, with his head a little elevated.  His Majesty’s skull is voluminous, his forehead broad and large.  We remarked that his Imperial Majesty’s brow was of a yellowish color, which appearance was also visible about the orbits of the eyes.  He kept his eyelids constantly closed, by which we had the opportunity of observing that the upper lids were garnished with eyelashes.  Years and climate have effected upon the face of this great monarch only a trifling alteration; we may say, indeed, that Time has touched his Imperial and Royal Majesty with the lightest feather in his wing.  In the nose of the Conqueror of Austerlitz we remarked very little alteration:  it is of the beautiful shape which we remember it possessed five-and-twenty years since, ere unfortunate circumstances induced him to leave us for a while.  The nostril and the tube of the nose appear to have undergone some slight alteration, but in examining a beloved object the eye of affection is perhaps too critical.  Vive l’Empereur! the soldier of Marengo is among us again.  His lips are thinner, perhaps, than they were before! how white his teeth are! you can just see three of them pressing his under lip; and pray remark the fulness of his cheeks and the round contour of his chin.  Oh, those beautiful white hands! many a time have they patted the cheek of poor Josephine, and played with the black ringlets of her hair.  She is dead now, and cold, poor creature; and so are Hortense and bold Eugene, than whom the world “never saw a curtier knight,” as was said of King Arthur’s Sir Lancelot.  What a day would it have been for those three could they have lived until now, and seen their hero returning!  Where’s Ney?  His wife sits looking out from M. Flahaut’s window yonder, but the bravest of the brave is not with her.  Murat too is absent:  honest Joachim loves the Emperor at heart, and repents that he was not at Waterloo:  who knows but that at the sight of the handsome swordsman those stubborn English “canaille” would have given way.  A king, Sire, is, you know, the greatest of slaves—­State affairs of consequence—­his Majesty the King of Naples is detained no doubt.  When we last saw the King, however, and his Highness the Prince of Elchingen, they looked to have as good health as ever they had in their lives, and we heard each of them calmly calling out “Fire!” as they have done in numberless battles before.