“Come, Admiral!” said the King.  “Tell the drummer to ouvrir le ban.”

The admiral in stentorian tones:  “Drummer!  Ouvrez le ban!”

A silence.  Then the King in a whisper:  “Say something, Admiral!  Tell them I am going to decorate an officer.”

The admiral made a sign of acquiescence, stepped forward, and began again, in the same stentorian tones: 

“Officers and men of the Pelican!”—­another pause “His Majesty”—­another pause—­“The cholera!”—­yet another pause.  “Your gallant surgeon,” pointing to him, “your gallant surgeon, I say.  The King desires to reward the officers and men of the Pelican for the cholera!” (He fired off the word cholera like a cannon shot.) “Appoints you Legionary” ("Knight,” whispers the King very low).  “Yes, Knight Legionary” (the King bent his head in despair).  “Knight Legionary of his Majesty’s r-r-royal order of the Legion of Honour!  Drummer!  Fermez le ban!”

This was done by the only drummer on board; the gallant surgeon-major came up to receive his cross, which the King, whose gravity never forsook him, presented to him with a few kindly words, while all the spectators made superhuman efforts to control their inclination to laugh.  What dozens of scenes of that kind I have witnessed!

I wound up my term of service at Eu.  All there were still full of the Queen of England’s visit, the episodes of which Isabey, Eugene Lamy, Alaux, and Simeon Fort were very busy transferring to canvas.  At last my little naval division was paid off.  I went back to Paris and re-entered the world, not of politics, but of social intercourse.  I even went to Chantilly Races, a meeting which my brothers had just established, and which has now become a standing institution.  These races were very different when they first began to what they are in the present day.  There was the same beautiful turfy racecourse, opposite the ancient castle of the Condes; the horses, too, and the trainers and jockeys were much the same; but the general public was very different.  There were no railways then to bring huge crowds in numberless specials and return them to Paris the same evening.  The company was less numerous, but it was more select.  People migrated to Chantilly for the race-week, content with what lodging they could find, and ready to put up with all the inconveniences of a sort of huge picnic, and spend every hour both of the day and night amusing themselves as best they could.  It was a kind of summer carnival, with country excursions, dinners, balls, and merry-makings of every description, at which the great world and the demi-monde, both of them in considerable force, sometimes mingled in somewhat noisy fun.

I recollect one extra riotous ball, at which the worthy mayor of Chantilly, M. Jaquin, thought it his duty to interfere, with the gendarmerie, to restore order.  The worthy magistrate entered, and commanded the noise to be stopped in the name of the law, at the same time inquiring who was the proprietor of the house.  “Brochet is!” chorused a hundred voices.