time living thought of these matters in the
Tuileries Palace hard by. I could picture him sitting, as was his
wont--a grave man with a keen sense of humour--with his head a little
on one side, his large, still face drawn and pale--the evidence of his
malady around his dull eyes. Was the game played out? The greatest
since that so gloriously won--so miserably lost at length--by his
uncle. The Bonapartes were no common men--and it was no common blood
that trickled unstanched ten years later into the sand of the African
veldt, leaving the world the poorer of one of its greatest races.

I gathered that the fall of the ministry was no great surprise to
these men assembled in this inner room. They formed, so far as I could
discover, a sort of administration--a committee which gathered the
opinions of the more intelligent citizens of the larger towns of
France--a head-center of news and public thought. Their meeting place
was furnished without ostentation, and in excellent taste.

These were no mere adventurers, but men of position and wealth, who
had somewhat to lose and every desire to retain the same. They did not
rave of patriotism, nor was there any cant of equality and fraternity.
It seemed rather that, finding themselves placed in stirring times,
they deemed it wise to guide by some means or other the course of
events into such channels as might ensure safety to themselves and
their possessions. And who can blame them for such foresight? Patriots
are, according to my experience, men who look for a substantial _quid
pro quo_. They serve their country with the view of making their
country serve them.

Whatever the usual deliberations of the body among whom I found myself
might be, the all-absorbing topic of the evening set all else aside.

"We approach the moment," cried one, a young man with a lisping
intonation and great possessions, as I afterwards learnt. "Now is the
time for all to do as I have done. I have sent everything out of the
country. I and my sword remain for France."

He spoke truly. He and his sword now lie side by side--in French soil.

"Let all do the same," growled an old man, with eyes flashing beneath
his great white brows.

"All who know," suggested one, significantly. Whereupon arose a great
discussion, and many names were uttered that were familiar to
me--among others, indeed, that of my friend, John Turner. I noticed
that many laughed when his name was mentioned.

"Oh!" they cried. "You