at
small phaeton through Paris, as he was in uniform, but all this did
not avail; he insisted to go in the phaeton and to go _alone_. He set
out later than he expected, and if the King had set out _exactly_ as
he had named, the parents and the son would probably have met on the
rising avenue of the Champs Elysees, towards the Barriere de l'Etoile
and Arc de Triomphe. However, the King delayed his departure and the
son set off. At the place where from the great avenue one turns off
towards Neuilly, the horses, which were not even young horses, as I am
told that he has had them some years, moved by that stupid longing to
get to Neuilly, where they knew their stables, got rather above
the postillion, and ran _quasi_ away. Chartres got up and asked the
postillion if he could hold his horses no longer; the boy called out
"Non, Monseigneur"; he had looked back when he said this, and saw his
master for the last time _standing_ in the phaeton. People at some
distance saw him come out of his carriage and describe a sort of
semicircle falling down. Nobody knows exactly if he jumped out of the
carriage, or if he lost his position and fell out. I am inclined to
think that, trusting to his lightness and agility, he wanted to jump
out, forgetting the impulse which a quick-going carriage gives, as
there were marks on his knees as if he had first fallen that way. The
principal blow was, however, on the head, the skull being entirely
fractured. He was taken up senseless, that is to say confused, but
not fainting, and carried into a small inn. At first his appearance,
sitting in a chair, was so little altered that people thought it was
nothing of any consequence.

He _knew_ no one, and only spoke a few incoherent words in German. The
accident happened about a quarter before twelve, and at four he was no
more.

I refer for some other details to Albert. Poor Louise looks like a
shadow, and only her great devotion for me supports her. It may serve
as a lesson how fragile all human affairs are. Poor Chartres, it
seems, with the prospect of these camps and altogether, was _never
in better spirits_. But I must end. Ever, my dearest Victoria, your
devoted Uncle,

LEOPOLD R.

[Pageheading: SIR EDWARD DISBROWE]

_Queen Victoria to the Earl of Aberdeen._

WINDSOR CASTLE, _27th July 1842._

The Queen thanks Lord Aberdeen for the letter she has this morning
received.

The Queen thinks that a reprimand would hardly do, as it is no