He took my hand with one of his, with the other he waved his sword, and led the plaudits.  His name was Magnan, and he was a Marshal of France before he died.  At Mornas, the native place of the famous Baron des Adrets, the reception took a very original shape.  As we drove up to the posting-house, I saw a great crowd, and the National Guard drawn up in two ranks, on the right and left of the postilions who were to take us on.  The carriage pulled up between the ranks, and I fancied I saw a sort of suppressed smile on the countenances of the National Guard.  It did not last long, for the commandant in the wildest excitement rapidly gave the words of command:  “Present arms—­Fire!” And they were followed by the most abominable noise, every man having presented arms with his finger on the trigger of his musket.  The crowd cheered tremendously, the horses plunged and reared, and there was a terrible disturbance, which seemed to afford the keenest joy to the officer in command.  There was nothing very striking at Orange, nor at Avignon.  Speeches by the authorities, visits to the public buildings, very much the same routine as that which official receptions have nowadays made so familiar to everybody.  But at Orgon, between Avignon and Aix, it was a very different matter.  An immense and excited crowd awaited our arrival, shouting all manner of things.  Then the carriage was seized upon by people who looked drunk, but who were drunk with political passion alone.  It seems the town of Orgon was not reckoned to favour the regime of 1830.  So from every side I was greeted with shouts of “We are Cavaillon’s men! ...  We’ve come down from the mountains so that you may tell your papa there are no Carlists in Provence.”  And then they sang the Marseillaise The horses were taken out of the carriage, the crowd surrounded it, climbing on the steps, the wheels, the fore-carriage, the roof.  I was like a prisoner in a cage; all I could see out of the window was the boots of the people who were sitting on the top.  They sang all the verses of the Marseillaise, and bawled between them.  A gentleman contrived to slip up to the carriage door, gave himself out to be the mayor, and tried to rescue us, calling out:  “Gentlemen, this really is not decent behaviour.”  All he got for his pains was a shout of “What the devil do we care about a mayor like you?” I don’t know how long it would have gone on, if a detachment of the battalion of Government workmen quartered at Orgon, which had been sent for, had not come to our rescue.

Between Orgon and Marseilles we met the “Regiment de la Charte” marching from Paris on their way to Algiers, and their passage through the country did not a little to excite the inhabitants.  At Marseilles the National Guard lined the Allees de Meillan, each man with a bouquet stuck into the muzzle of his rifle, which he took out and threw into the barouche in which I sat with General Gazan, so that I was soon fairly buried, with nothing but my head sticking out, while the crowd shouted at the top of its voice:  “Vive le Prinnche!—­Long live the Prince!” and I heard women’s voices adding, “Que sis poulid!  Qui est si joli!”