The Royal Family, headed by Charles X., was present at this fete, whereat pre-eminence of every kind was gathered together and every class represented, and where cordiality seemed universal.  After the entrance of the two sets of dancers in costume, the King went out to walk on the terrace which runs along the top of the Galerie d’Orleans.  The night was so warm and lovely that the ladies were walking about in their low gowns, and the dazzling illuminations made it as bright as day.  The courtyard of the Palais-Royal was closed, but an immense crowd filled the gardens, trying to see as much as possible of the gay doings.  I was running in front of Charles X. as he walked along, and I saw his tall form advance to the parapet of the terrace on the garden side, with that truly royal air he had about him.  He waved his hand several times in greeting to the crowd, which at that short distance, and under that brilliant light, must have recognized him perfectly, not by his features only, but by his full uniform of Colonel-General of the Guard, and also by the retinue that followed him.  But there was no shout of “Vive le Roi!” nor any hostile one either.  The surging crowd only seemed to be rather more stirred, and the same uproar rose from it as one may hear on a firework night, when some fine set-piece is set alight.  One last wave of the hand, with a “Bonjour, mon peuple!” which the King spoke half in jest and half in earnest, and Charles X. departed.  I was never to see him again.  Immediately afterwards, or nearly so, the crowd laid hands on the chairs in the garden, piled them up on the grass plots where the midday gun stood, and set them on fire.  The troops had to be called out to clear the garden, and that first scene of public not, so new to me, filled me with astonishment and rage as well.

Shortly after this fete came the taking of Algiers—­a Proof of the national strength, of political courage and foresight—­a brilliant military exploit, performed under the “drapeau blanc,” which might well have roused the enthusiasm of the nation, tightened the bond between France and her king, and reconciled the people to their ancient flag.  It did nothing of the kind.  The taking of Algiers was received like an ordinary piece of news, and the tricolour flag was regretted as deeply as ever.  For the platform and the press—­but especially the press, the mightiest instrument of destruction of modern times—­had done their work.  The days of the Government of the Restoration were numbered.  Not that it had been blameworthy.  Both at home and abroad it had certainly been the best of all the administrations that had succeeded each other since 1789.  But it had endeavoured to govern like a patriarch, for the present good and the future greatness of France, and to withstand the assaults of those unprincipled individuals who looked on their country simply as a farm to make money out of.  So bit by bit it had been demolished, just as everything has been demolished these past hundred years, in the name of laws and principles which dissolve every kind of government, and which will soon make it absolutely impossible for society to exist.  The hour when the words, “Get out of that, and let me take your place,” the real and only object of our successive revolutions, should resound, was on the very stroke.