nd populace alike crowded the streets of
the town in an effort to acquire a good place from which to see the
arrival of the king. Intendants and servitors were giving orders on all
sides, frequently contradictory, and gardeners were furbishing up the
alleyed walks and flower beds in readiness for _Sa Majeste Louis
Quatorze_ and all his little world of satellites. A majestic
effervescence bubbled over all, and the _bourgeoisie_ enjoyed itself
hugely, climbing even on roof-tops and gables in the town without the
palace gates.

The _Roi Soleil_ came at last to his "well-beloved city of Versailles."
"He arrived in a cloud of golden dust," said a writer of the time, and
any who have seen Versailles blazing and treeless in the middle of a
long, hot summer, will know what it was like on that occasion.

Cannons roared, and the sound of revelry and welcoming joy was
everywhere to be heard.

THE VERSAILLES OF YESTERDAY. The lugubrious booming of cannons came
rolling over the meanderings of the Seine from the capital. The
hard-heads of Paris would understand nothing; they would make flow
never-ceasing rivers of blood. The national troops were well-nigh
impotent; it was difficult to shoot down your own flesh and blood at any
time; doubly so when your native land has not yet been evacuated by a
venturesome enemy. It was the time of the Commune. Traffic at
Versailles was of that intensity that circulation was almost impossible.
In spite of a dismal April rain the town was full of all sorts and
conditions of men. The animation of the crowd was feverish, but it was
without joy. A convoy of prisoners passed between two lines of soldiers
with drawn bayonets. They were Frenchmen, but they were Communards. It
was but a moment before they were behind the barred doors of the
barracks which was to be their prison, packed like a troop of sheep for
the slaughter. Versailles itself, the palace and the town, were still
sad. The rain still fell in torrents.

THE VERSAILLES OF TO-DAY. Roses, begonias, geraniums, the last of a long
hot summer, still shed their fragrant memories over the park of
Versailles. In the long, sober alleys a few leaves had already dropped
from the trees above, marking the greensward and the gravel like a
_tapis d'orient_, red and green and gold.

Flora and Bacchus in their fountains seemed less real than ever before,
more sombre under the pale, trickling light through the trees. A few
scattered visitors were about, si