r,
although the son of a miller, had shown ability and honesty enough to
fill high positions under the First Empire.

The Baron Tonnelier had a large fortune, increasing every day by
successful speculation. In his youth he had been a good horseman, a
Voltairian, and a Liberal.

In time--though he remained a Voltairian--he renounced horsemanship, and
Liberalism. Although he was a simple deputy, he had a twinge of democracy
now and then; but after he was invested with the peerage, he felt sure
from that moment that the human species had no more progress to make.

The French Revolution was ended; its giddiest height attained. No longer
could any one walk, talk, write, or rise. That perplexed him. Had he been
sincere, he would have avowed that he could not comprehend that there
could be storms, or thunder-clouds in the heavens--that the world was not
perfectly happy and tranquil, while he himself was so. When his nephew
was old enough to comprehend him, Baron Tonnelier was no longer peer of
France; but being one who does himself no hurt--and sometimes much good
by a fall, he filled a high office under the new government. He
endeavored to discharge its duties conscientiously, as he had those of
the preceding reign.

He spoke with peculiar ease of suppressing this or that journal--such an
orator, such a book; of suppressing everything, in short, except himself.
In his view, France had been in the wrong road since 1789, and he sought
to lead her back from that fatal date.

Nevertheless, he never spoke of returning, in his proper person, to his
grandfather's mill; which, to say the least, was inconsistent. Had
Liberty been mother to this old gentleman, and had he met her in a clump
of woods, he would have strangled her. We regret to add that he had the
habit of terming "old duffers" such ministers as he suspected of liberal
views, and especially such as were in favor of popular education. A more
hurtful counsellor never approached a throne; but luckily, while near it
in office, he was far from it in influence.

He was still a charming man, gallant and fresh--more gallant, however,
than fresh. Consequently his habits were not too good, and he haunted the
greenroom of the opera. He had two daughters, recently married, before
whom he repeated the most piquant witticisms of Voltaire, and the most
improper stories of Tallemant de Reaux; and consequently both promised to
afford the scandalmongers a series of racy anecdotes, as