Then came the echo of the excitement caused by the coronation of Charles X., that great ceremonial of which the Cathedral of Rheims was the scene, and which, coming as it did after all the horrors of the Revolution, gave rise to the sanguine hope that the ancient monarchy would repair every disaster now, just as it had in the time of Charles VII.  But our childish ideas were not of so far-reaching a nature.  It was the splendour displayed that interested us—­the dresses, the carriages, and so on, of the princes and ambassadors who came from all parts of the world to greet the opening of the new monarch’s reign.  Numbers of artists solicited my father’s permission to do his portrait, in the gold and ermine robes of a prince of the blood which he wore at the coronation, and our pet amusement at the time was to go and see papa “sitting as Pharamond.”  I said Pharamond, like my elders, although my own historical knowledge was of the most elementary description.  To be frank, I was exceedingly backward, and have always remained so.  My mother had taught me to read, but beyond that I had reached the age of six knowing nothing or hardly anything.  But I was a very good rider and went out alone on a pony Lord Bristol had given my father, which I rode boldly, and I might even say recklessly.  The pony’s name was Polynice.  He and I understood each other perfectly, and I was his friend to the last.  I took care he should end his days in the park at St. Cloud, where he roamed in freedom, with a stable of his own to retire into if the fancy took him.  Often and often I have been to see him, in that same stable, which he ended by never leaving except to come and greet us, and warm himself in the sunshine.  He died, there, fortunately for himself, full of years, just before the pleasant revolutionary occurrences of 1848, in which he would certainly have had his share.  But my father desired me to be something more than a mere horseman.  He got me a tutor, and from that day out, for several years, my recollections are divided, to the exclusion of everything else, between my education and my life with my family.  My tutor was called M. Trognon, and his name brought many

[Illustration:  Looks a little like a courtroom unfortunately without a caption.]

a jest upon him, amongst others a line of Victor Hugo’s in Ruy Bias about that

 Affreuse compagnonne,
 Dont la barbe fleurit et dont le nez trognonne.

“Fleurit” was an allusion to Cuvillier-Fleury, my brother Aumale’s tutor, and Victor Hugo thought he owed both the gentlemen a grudge.  M. Trognon, a distinguished pupil of the Ecole Normale, had begun his teaching career as professor of rhetoric at the college at Langres, where, coming in one day to take his class, he found his desk occupied by a donkey, which his pupils had established in his seat “Gentlemen,” he said as he went out, “I leave you with a professor who is worthy of you.”  Soon after, he was recalled to Paris, as assistant to M. Guizot in his courses of historical lectures at the College of France.