manifest to the most casual observer. The Empress, after the most
fatiguing day or soiree, always looked as if she had just left her
dressing-room, the Emperor at the beginning of the same as if he had
scarcely been in it. But on "grand hunt-days" the Empress was never a
minute late; and the reason, apart from the natural wish to exercise "la
politesse des rois," exactitude, was a curious one, but for the truth of
which I can vouch. It gets dark early in November, and the Empress
dreaded to be overtaken by darkness in the forest, even amidst a crowd.
It reminded her of a disagreeable episode during her first stay at
Compiegne, when she was still Mdlle. Eugenie de Montijo. She and her
future husband had got separated from the rest of the party. It was
never accurately known what happened, but she was found sitting quietly
but sorely distressed on her horse by M. de Saint-Paul, the sub-ranger,
who escorted her back to the Chateau. She explained her lonely and
uncomfortable position by the fact that her companion's horse had
suddenly taken the bit between its teeth. The explanation was a lame
one, seeing that the Prince-President, on his return, hours before, had
looked perfectly composed and not as much as mentioned her name. The
truth leaked out afterwards. Enraged at Mdlle. de Montijo's refusal to
grant him a clandestine interview for that night, her princely suitor
had left her to find her way back as best she could.

Invariably, then, at the stroke of one, the Imperial procession was
signalled, for it was nothing less than a procession. At its head rode
the chief ranger of Compiegne, Baron de Wimpffen, in a magnificent
hunting-coat of green and gold, the laced tricornered hat, surmounted by
a bunch of black plumes, jackboots, and white doeskins. Then came the
Imperial break, drawn by six horses, mounted by postilions in powdered
wigs, the Imperial host and hostess on the front seat, the members of
the family, or some illustrious guests, behind; the rest of the breaks
were only four-horsed, and the procession was closed by the carriage of
M. Hyrvoix, the chief of the secret police. In Paris this arrangement
was reversed, and M. Hyrvoix, who had the rank of a prefect, and took
his place as such at all public functions, preceded instead of following
the Imperial carriage.

I am inclined to think, notwithstanding the frequent outcries against
the secret police during the second empire, that M. Hyrvoix was a
thoroughly