and de Castellane, of some charming members of the corps diplomatique, the Princess de Ligne, Mesdames Firmin Rogier and de Stockhausen, or again of three sisters, daughters of M. de Laborde, Mesdames Delessert, Bocher, and Odier.  Three magnificent Englishwomen, the Sheridan sisters, had formerly caused a great sensation.  Now it was the turn of Princesse Mathilde, then at the height of her beauty; and there were many others besides.

Among the gentlemen, a strong contingent of our visitors was furnished by the foreigners passing through Paris—­Prince Paul of Wurtemberg, Prince Max of Bavaria, Prince Paul Esterhazy.  Amongst the English were Disraeli, Bear Ellis, Charles Fox, Monckton Milnes, &c., &c.  There were numbers of Spaniards.  Sometimes M. von Humboldt would give us a reading, not invariably amusing.  However, to make up for that, I have heard Prince Belgiojoso, the husband of the beautiful deep-eyed Trivulce, sing, with a voice that was exquisite.  But the catalogue of visitors would be an endless one.  Yet I cannot pass on without mentioning among our most constant habitues, at that time Marshal Sebastiani, one of a circle of intimate friends presided over by my aunt Adelaide.

This little gathering, of which M. de Talleyrand had been an assiduous member, and where Marshal Gerard, M. Dupin, Flahaut, a certain General de Lavcestine (who downright toadied my aunt, her valet de chambre, and her very parrot), and a few other faithful friends were in the habit of meeting, took place in the morning, in that charming set of rooms on the ground-floor of the Pavilion de Flore, the windows of which looked on the corner of the Pont Royal and on the gate into the Tuileries gardens.  From these windows the quaintest sights were to be seen, not the least entertaining of which were the Homeric struggles of the sentries of the National Guard, absolute slaves to their orders, to prevent dogs which were not led by a string from following their owners into the Tuileries gardens, in which struggles the bold city guard, in spite of prodigies of valour, not unfrequently got beaten.

My good aunt Adelaide started, towards springtime in 1845, to pay her first visit to an estate she owned at Arc-en-Barrois, in the Haute-Marne, and as she intended leaving it to me in her will she took me with her.  The property in question, originally belonging to Vitry, the Captain of the Guard under Louis XIII., who killed the Marechal d’Ancre, had afterwards passed into the hands of the Penthievre family, and then into the possession of mine, like all the rest of the Penthievre inheritance.  My great-grandfather, the Due de Penthievre, had lived there a good deal in a fine house, which was of course plundered and destroyed during the Revolution, notwithstanding the fact that the good prince had done a great deal of good in that country, where his name is still venerated.