o be called Emperor of America, and who, unlike Maximilian, had wisely
surrendered such a crown.

Cavalry, infantry, cannon, wagons, on they came through the city and
past the Zocalo, under the Cathedral towers, under the lifeless,
shuttered windows of the Palacio. Here in the Zocalo, in the central
plaza, the sometime first lady of Her Imperial Majesty's household sat
in her barouche, and opposite her a pretty girl, and she was talking
with an officer of Chasseurs d'Afrique whose horse was restive, and all
the while there was the rumbling of wheels, the tread of feet, and the
ring of hoofs.

The sometime first lady was saying good-bye to the officer, as she had
already to many another gallant chevalier pausing beside her carriage.
But for her it was farewell to all her countrymen there, to the little
piou-pious most of all, and her gray eyes were frankly moist.

"And now they are going," she mused aloud, "really going, because,
parbleau, a monsieur in Washington says they must."

"I wish to heaven," swore the young officer gloomily, "some monsieur
would say as much to you! See here, we'd give you and Mademoiselle
Berthe enough room on the ship for a barracks, if you'd only come.
There's a many less welcome," and he jerked his head toward a stream of
vehicles straggling among the troops. They were filled with Mexican
aristocrats whose doubtful titles had been revived by the Empire, all
eagerly accepting French transport out of their native land.

Jacqueline laughed. "They're so afraid of the Liberals, they will forget
their escutcheons. So of course they've forgotten the bouquets. You
should have seen the garlands, Michel, that heralded our grand entry
here. Oh, la-la! We paid for them ourselves. Thus arrived the Drapeau
Civilizateur de la France. And now behold the departure. Not the cost of
a violet to spare from Napoleon's strong chest! He mais, hear that tune!
It's 'Leaving for Syria,' the thing decreed into our national hymn. For
once I'm glad, glad it's not the 'Marseillaise.'"

"Mademoiselle--dear friend," spoke the slow-thinking Michel, "you do not
wish to answer my question. Why do you stay behind, alone? Why? Nothing
good ever happens to anyone in this country, and who can tell what might
happen to you when the army is gone? Come now," he went on, forcing some
bluff cheer into his words, "Jeanne d'Aumerle, your friends want you out
of it. Fall in with us, here, now. Let me give the order, 'Cocher, a
Pari