I recollect laughing heartily one evening, when this duty had fallen to me, at seeing an officer of the National Guard, in his cocked hat and big feather, whose vision had somewhat suffered from the supper he had just consumed, trying to insist on persuading the Suisse standing at the door of the ball-room with his cross belts and halbert, to be his partner in the dance.  He made frenzied attempts to drag him away, and only interrupted them to try the seductive power of the most eccentric of dancing steps which he performed before him.

Nowadays the race known as the Grand Prix de Paris marks the close of what people are pleased to call the season.  Under the July Monarchy it was the “Fete du Roi” with its firework display, and its official receptions, which were tiresome to the last degree.  Revolutions may succeed each other, governments may change, but all the tiresome things go on for ever.  Under the monarchy, the empire, or the republic alike, it is indispensable, so it would appear, that once in the year at least, the diplomatic body, clergy, Chambers, officers of the land and sea forces, and companies and corporations of every kind, should pass before the chief ruler, whoever he may be, and make a series of official speeches to him, expressing good wishes which are for the most part utterly lacking in sincerity, and which the unlucky recipient is obliged to acknowledge in every sort of commonplace formula.  My father had quite a special talent for varying these answers of his, which he always extemporised.  They were taken down in shorthand, and made over to Vatout to have a final polish put on them before being sent to the Moniteur.  The witty academician abhorred this duty, which he irreverently styled “dressing the royal macaroni.”  For lay figures like myself, the only interest about these receptions, which were practically got up for effect, lay in watching the personages we saw pass.  Two long-haired peers of France, who always were among the last of their Chamber to pass by, used to attract our attention particularly.  They were Victor Hugo and Montalembert; then among the members of the Paris Municipal Council, Victor Considerant, too, used to be pointed out to us.  Then there was a member of the Institute in a green coat and black breeches, whose advent we looked forward to with delight.  This worthy gentleman used to come up with three or four deputations in succession.  He would arrive with the first, bow, applaud enthusiastically after the address, and then, while his deputation was leaving by the door of exit, he was stepping backwards to the entrance door to reappear with a second and third party, coming forward each time with the same low bows and the same demonstrations of enthusiasm.

Among the general officers and diplomats out of active service who took part in these ceremonies, I used to remark two British admirals, Sir Sydney Smith and Lord Cochrane, who never failed to attend.  They had each had a brilliant career.  The first, with Djezzar Pasha, had defended St. Jean d’Acre against General Bonaparte’s forces.  The second, a tall, fine, bold-looking man, had covered himself with glory by the most gallant behaviour, both in Europe and Chili, where the tradition of his valour still survives.  Both had done great service to their country, yet neither, it was said, could return to it.  Wherefore?