hese four men about the King of the Belgians represented the
old military nobility, the parliamentary aristocracy, the pettifogging
bourgeoisie, and moonshine literature; that is to say, a little of what
France possesses that is illustrious, and a little of what she possesses
that is ridiculous.

MM. d'Aumale and de Montpensier were to the right in the recess of a
window with the Duke of Wurtemberg, whom they called their "brother
Alexander." All the princes wore the grand cordon and star of Leopold
in honour of the King of the Belgians; MM. de Nemours and de Montpensier
also wore the Golden Fleece. The Fleece of M. de Montpensier was of
diamonds, and magnificent.

The Italian singers sang standing by the piano. When seated they
occupied chairs with wooden backs.

The Prince de Joinville was absent, as was also his wife. It was
said that lately he was the hero of a love affair. M. de Joinville is
prodigiously strong. I heard a big lackey behind me say: "I shouldn't
care to receive a slap from him." While he was strolling to his
rendezvous M. de Joinville thought he noticed that he was being
followed. He turned back, went up to the fellow and struck him.

After the first part of the concert MM. d'Aumale and de Montpensier came
into the other salon where I had taken refuge with Theophile Gautier,
and we chatted for fully an hour. The two princes spoke to me at length
about literary matters, about "Les Burgraves," "Ruy Blas," "Lucrece
Borgia," Mme. Halley, Mlle. Georges, and Frederick Lemaitre. Also a good
deal about Spain, the royal wedding, bull-fights, hand-kissings,
and etiquette, that M. de Montpensier "detests." "The Spaniards love
royalty," he added, "and especially etiquette. In politics as in
religion they are bigots rather than believers. They were greatly
shocked during the wedding fetes because the Queen one day dared to
venture out afoot!"

MM. d'Aumale and de Montpensier are charming young men, bright, gay,
gracious, witty, sincere, full of that ease that communicates itself to
others. They have a fine air. They are princes; they are perhaps men of
intellect. M. de Nemours is embarrassed and embarrassing. When he comes
towards you with his blond whiskers, his blue eyes, his red sash, his
white waistcoat and his melancholy air he perturbs you. He never looks
you in the face. He always casts about for something to say and never
knows what he does say.

November 5, 1847.

Four years ago the Duke d