would seem to insult the public sorrow.

I took leave of my friend, and here I am at home. What I have just seen
is an answer to my doubts the other day. Now I know with what pangs men
pay for their dignities; now I understand

That Fortune sells what we believe she gives.

This explains to me the reason why Charles V. aspired to the repose of
the cloister.

And yet I have only glanced at some of the sufferings attached to power.
What shall I say of the falls in which its possessors are precipitated
from the heights of heaven to the very depths of the earth? of that path
of pain along which they must forever bear the burden of their
responsibility? of that chain of decorums and ennuis which encompasses
every act of their lives, and leaves them so little liberty?

The partisans of despotism adhere with reason to forms and ceremonies. If
men wish to give unlimited power to their fellow-man, they must keep him
separated from ordinary humanity; they must surround him with a continual
worship, and, by a constant ceremonial, keep up for him the superhuman
part they have granted him. Our masters cannot remain absolute, except on
condition of being treated as idols.

But, after all, these idols are men, and, if the exclusive life they must
lead is an insult to the dignity of others, it is also a torment to
themselves. Everyone knows the law of the Spanish court, which used to
regulate, hour by hour, the actions of the king and queen; "so that,"
says Voltaire, "by reading it one can tell all that the sovereigns of
Spain have done, or will do, from Philip II to the day of judgment." It
was by this law that Philip III, when sick, was obliged to endure such an
excess of heat that he died in consequence, because the Duke of Uzeda,
who alone had the right to put out the fire in the royal chamber,
happened to be absent.

When the wife of Charles II was run away with on a spirited horse, she
was about to perish before anyone dared to save her, because etiquette
forbade them to touch the queen. Two young officers endangered their
lives for her by stopping the horse. The prayers and tears of her whom
they had just snatched from death were necessary to obtain pardon for
their crime. Every one knows the anecdote related by Madame Campan of
Marie Antoinette, wife of Louis XVI. One day, being at her toilet, when
the chemise was about to be presented to her by one of the assistants, a
lady of very ancient family entered and claime