What should I do?  I am not naturally nervous, but to be caught lurking in the Tuileries Garden in the night would involve me in the gravest peril.  The simple way would have been to have gone to the gate nearest the Pavillon de Marsan, and said to the policeman on duty there that I had inadvertently fallen asleep, that I was usually a wide-awake citizen of the land that Lafayette went to save, that I wanted my dinner, and would like to get out.  I walked down near enough to the gate to see the policeman, but my courage failed.  Before I could stammer out half that explanation to him in his trifling language (which foreigners are mockingly told is the best in the world for conversation), he would either have slipped his hateful rapier through my body, or have raised an alarm and called out the guards of the palace to hunt me down like a rabbit.

A man in the Tuileries Garden at night! an assassin! a conspirator! one of the Carbonari, perhaps a dozen of them—­who knows?—­Orsini bombs, gunpowder, Greek-fire, Polish refugees, murder, emeutes, revolution!

No, I’m not going to speak to that person in the cocked hat and dress-coat under these circumstances.  Conversation with him out of the best phrase-books would be uninteresting.  Diplomatic row between the two countries would be the least dreaded result of it.  A suspected conspirator against the life of Napoleon, without a chance for explanation, I saw myself clubbed, gagged, bound, searched (my minute notes of the Tuileries confiscated), and trundled off to the Conciergerie, and hung up to the ceiling in an iron cage there, like Ravaillac.

I drew back into the shade and rapidly walked to the western gate.  It was closed, of course.  On the gate-piers stand the winged steeds of Marly, never less admired than by me at that moment.  They interested me less than a group of the Corps d’Afrique, who lounged outside, guarding the entrance from the square, and unsuspicious that any assassin was trying to get out.  I could see the gleam of the lamps on their bayonets and hear their soft tread.  Ask them to let me out?  How nimbly they would have scaled the fence and transfixed me!  They like to do such things.  No, no—­whatever I do, I must keep away from the clutches of these cats of Africa.

And enough there was to do, if I had been in a mind to do it.  All the seats to sit in, all the statuary to inspect, all the flowers to smell.  The southern terrace overlooking the Seine was closed, or I might have amused myself with the toy railway of the Prince Imperial that ran nearly the whole length of it, with its switches and turnouts and houses; or I might have passed delightful hours there watching the lights along the river and the blazing illumination on the amusement halls.  But I ascended the familiar northern terrace and wandered amid its bowers, in company with Hercules, Meleager, and other worthies I knew only by sight, smelling the orange-blossoms, and trying to fix the site of the old riding-school where the National Assembly sat in 1789.