d whispered in the ear of James of York, his younger brother,
"In truth, James, it seems to have been our own fault that we were so
long absent from a country where we are so much beloved!" The pageant
was magnificent. Beautiful weather favored the solemnity. Charles
had regained all his youth, all his good humor; he appeared to be
transfigured; hearts seemed to smile on him like the sun. Amongst this
noisy crowd of courtiers and worshippers, who did not appear to remember
they had conducted to the scaffold at Whitehall the father of the new
king, a man, in the garb of a lieutenant of musketeers, looked, with
a smile upon his thin, intellectual lips, sometimes at the people
vociferating their blessings, and sometimes at the prince, who pretended
emotion, and who bowed most particularly to the women, whose bouquets
fell beneath his horse's feet.

"What a fine trade is that of king!" said this man, so completely
absorbed in contemplation that he stopped in the middle of his road,
leaving the cortege to file past. "Now, there is, in good truth, a
prince all bespangled over with gold and diamonds, enamelled with
flowers like a spring meadow; he is about to plunge his empty hands
into the immense coffer in which his now faithful--but so lately
unfaithful--subjects have amassed one or two cartloads of ingots of
gold. They cast bouquets enough upon him to smother him; and yet, if he
had presented himself to them two months ago, they would have sent as
many bullets and balls at him as they now throw flowers. Decidedly it is
worth something to be born in a certain sphere, with due respect to the
lowly, who pretend that it is of very little advantage to them to be
born lowly." The cortege continued to file on, and, with the king, the
acclamations began to die away in the direction of the palace which,
however, did not prevent our officer from being pushed about.

"Mordioux!" continued the reasoner, "these people tread upon my toes and
look upon me as of very little consequence, or rather of none at all,
seeing that they are Englishmen and I am a Frenchman. If all these
people were asked,--'Who is M. d'Artagnan?' they would reply, 'Nescio
vos.' But let any one say to them, 'There is the king going by,' 'There
is M. Monk going by,' they would run away, shouting,--'Vive le roi!'
'Vive M. Monk!' till their lungs were exhausted. And yet," continued he,
surveying, with that look sometimes so keen and sometimes so proud, the
diminishin