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inexperienced travellers could scarcely believe, the next day, that Paris was the same city which they had seen on their first arrival,—full of barricades, armed groups, defiance, and discontents.

A bright sunny morning ushered the public entrance of the King, triumphant as if La Fronde had never existed. White flags waved from the windows; flowers were flung down in profusion; not a voice was raised but in huzzas—not a hand but in applause. Preceded by the richly caparisoned guards, care had been taken to give them the appearance of an escort necessary to dignity—but not to security. Mounted on a snow-white horse, whose trappings of scarlet and gold swept the ground, and whose curvetting served but to show the graceful management of the rider; his purple velvet cloak fastened with jewels, and