When our father did not take us to the Theatre Francais, we spent our evenings in those beautiful rooms in the Palais-Royal where he had gathered together so many admirable pictures and works of art, plundered and dispersed since by the revolutionists and their tribe, together with the splendid furniture which was used to burn a detachment of the 14th Regiment of the Line alive, on the 24th of February, on which day it was on guard at the Palais-Royal.  And to think that a French Chamber actually voted national rewards to people who had made an Auto DA Fe of French soldiers who were guilty of defending till death the post which duty and honour at once made sacred to them!  But let that pass; worse things happen nowadays, but at the happy time I speak of nobody thought of the possibility of such shameful doings.  This is what men call progress!  As far as we ourselves were concerned, we spent our evenings in all the carelessness of our youth, playing together merrily and noisily in the family drawing-room, a large gallery running from the courtyard to the Rue de Valois.  The games were liveliest on Sundays and Thursdays, because, those days being school holidays, our merry band was reinforced by my brothers’ class-mates, mm. de Laborderie, Guillermy, d’Eckmul, Albert, &c., &c., and by Alfred de Mussetas well, whom I still seem to see, with his blue coat and gilt buttons, his fair curly hair, and his melancholy and somewhat affected ways.  We generally played “prisoners’ base”—­a game to which the great gallery was very well suited.  Sometimes there was dancing, and then my mother’s eye was always on de Musset, who seemed to scorn our games and to be inclined to pay assiduous court to my big sisters.

Our games never interfered with the coming and going of visitors and habitual guests and old friends of my father’s, who had been his friends before the Revolution.  There was the Duc de la Rochefoucauld, “the good Duke,” as he was called, very much dreaded by us children because he was always kissing us, and smelt so strongly of tobacco; and M. de Lally-Tollendal; and then friends of more recent date, General Gerard, Raoul de Montmorency, Madame de Boigne, the Princesse de Poix, the Princesse de Vaudemont, besides many others, soldiers, artists, diplomats, and ladies—­every one, in fact, who was distinguished either by their personal charm, by mental qualities, or by the brilliancy of their career.  Some amongst the number were more congenial to me than others; such as Francois Arago, the astronomer, inexhaustible in wit and humour, whether he was recounting his adventures when he was in captivity in the Barbary States, or the way he plagued his colleague Ampere, a soldier like himself in the regiment of the “Parrots in mourning,” as he dubbed the Institute, in his southern accent, because of its green and black uniform.  And then Macdonald, Marmont, Molitor, and Mortier, the four Marshals whose name began with M, the heroes of a hundred fights, the living embodiment of the renown our arms had won.  We used all of us to try and hear whatever they said, whatever stories they told, and to gather up any information or anecdote touching the military glory of our country.