The reception given by the soldiers, whose toils and dangers he had just been sharing, to this vigorous language may be imagined.  He had the supreme charm, both for soldiers and for artists, who always found a friend and protector in him, and for women as well.  But here I touch a delicate subject, and the most inviolable secrecy checks my pen.  Old Baron James de Rothschild was heard to say in his old age that he yet had to meet the lady who could resist him.  I fancy he boasted somewhat.  I fancy, too, that if he had not met her then, he ended by knowing such a lady.  But I am certain, without going so far as the baron did, that my brother met few women, in the course of his radiant youth, who did not respond to his homage, at all events with a secret but tender emotion.  Into what adventures that personal charm of his carried him!  He was saved on one such occasion, from a very risky situation, by his own sangfroid and boldness.  It was at a period when attempted risings were continually occurring in Paris.  Either he or she had had the somewhat original idea of meeting at a house in a far from poetic street which still exists—­the Rue Tiquetonne.  Presently alarming sounds were heard, and then died away, only to begin again, louder than ever.  Soon the distant rolling of drums sounded, followed by rifle shots.  It was the situation in the fourth act of The Huguenots.  They rushed to the window.  The street was full of armed rioters, busily engaged in building up barricades.  How was he, the Prince Royal, known as he was by everybody, to get away?  “I turned up the collar of my overcoat,” he told me, “and I was lucky enough to get into the street just as they were dragging up a carriage to upset it and make it the nucleus of the barricade.  I caught hold of it at once, helped to turn it over, and to pile paving-stones and stuff of all sorts over and round it, with an amount of zeal that disarmed all suspicion.  And then I watched my opportunity and slipped away.”  In an hour he was in uniform and on horseback, and the Municipal Guard was carrying his barricade at the bayonet’s point. [Footnote:  Translator’s note.—­What became of the poor lady?]

Such, under his various aspects, was the brother I had lost.

I reached Neuilly in time to be present at his solemn funeral, which took place at Notre-Dame amid the most touching proofs of the general sorrow.  We took him to the mausoleum at Dreux, and then we shut ourselves up at Neuilly to cling to each other and mourn him in silence and retirement.

But though my brother Nemours, upon whom the eventual duties of Regent fell by the Duc d’Orleans’ death, was by that fact prevented from going away, neither I nor my other brothers, who wore the King’s uniform, were able to remain long in idleness.