My father had put the Queen into a huge open vehicle, with room for twelve people in it, like a boat in shape, drawn by a team of eight horses, harnessed in the French style, with an outrider, coachman, footmen, and grooms all dressed in red.  The postilion, who wore great boots as in a Van der Meulen picture, was the only servant in a blue livery.  This contrast in colour arose out of a tradition which had been kept up in the royal stables, that the postilion, being supposed to have taken off his jacket for the sake of being cool, must always be dressed in the same colours as the other servants’ waistcoats.  The Orleans livery being scarlet with a blue waistcoat, the postilions wore blue.  The Conde livery being chamois-colour, with amaranth waistcoats, the postilions must wear amaranth, and so on.

The royal waggon with its eight horses was anything but easy to manage on the narrow Norman roads.  And one slight accident occurred of which I was the unlucky cause.  I was riding beside the carriage door, and I got in the way when it was turning a corner, so that it got locked, and remained so for some minutes.  My father stormed, and the Queen went into a fit of laughter; but the poor old coachman, a veteran belonging to the old state stables, cast a look at me that must have been like Vatel’s glance before he ran himself through with his sword.  I had brought disgrace on him at the most solemn moment in his life!

The next day a fresh bit of local colour was provided for the royal guests.  The Queen was taken out driving with posters in the forest.  The postilions, with their clubbed and powdered hair and gaily beribboned hats, started at a fairly steady pace, but once they were clear of the crowd they went off at full tear, with loose reins and a great cracking of whips.  The pace was so severe that it was as much as I could do, with my horse at full gallop, to keep my place beside the carriage door.  The fun was flavoured with a touch of uneasiness, which increased its charm.  The whole period of the Queen’s visit was thus spent in drives and excursions, from which we did our best to banish any touch of official formality and constraint.

In the evenings there would be a concert, with the artists from the Conservatoire to sing the chorus from Armide, “Jamais en ces beaux lieux,” the orchestra performing the symphony in A, and a solo on the horn by Vivier; or else Auber would bring the Opera Comique troupe, Roger, Chollet, and Anna Thillon; or else Arnot played L’Humonste with Mdme. Doche.  There were Cabinet Ministers there as well.  Lord Aberdeen and M. Guizot held conversations, during which they may or may not have confided political secrets to each other.  Marshal Soult, the President of the Council, spoke but little, and when he did, the words that fell from his lips were not always of the most good-tempered sort, as one unlucky general found out to his cost.  This worthy man, no longer young, who was in command in a neighbouring department,