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178 women do. I have gone round with her for an hour together, carrying strings and a watering-pot, helping M'lle Hortense,—who, you know, is just your age,—to help her mother.

Well! so much for Malmaison.

Papa had really had what he calls a "very good time" talking with the First Consul. He says he is the most sensible man he has seen since he bade Mr. Pollock good-bye. I am afraid I did not take much pains to tell him that the grand reception of last night was to be a very different thing from that informal visit. For if I had told him, he never would have gone. But when he was once there, why, he could not turn back, you know.

And it was very brilliant. Indeed, since the battle of Marengo, nothing can be too brilliant for everybody's expectations; and although Malmaison is nothing to the Thuilleries, yet a fete there is very charming. When papa saw lackeys standing on the steps,—and found that our carriage had to wait its turn,—and that our names were to be called from sentry to sentry, he would gladly have turned and fled. But, like a devoted son, I explained to him that this would be cowardly. I reminded him that he had promised General Buonaparte to come, and that his word was as good as his bond. Before he knew it, a chamberlain had us in hand, and we passed along the brilliant line to be presented in our turn.

Inez, dear, I confess to you that I had an elegant little queue, and a soupcon of powder upon my hair. So had most of the gentlemen around me. But General Buonaparte hates powder, they say, when it is not gunpowder,—and he and dear papa had no flake of it on the locks, which they wore as nature made them. They were the handsomest men in that room,—I, who write, not excepted. Now, my dear sister, never tell me that I am vain again.

Well! when our turn came, Madame Buonaparte gave papa her hand, which is very unusual, and fairly detained him every time he offered to move on. This left me, who came next, to talk to M'lle Hortense, who was charmante. She never looked so well. I did not care how long the General and Madame held papa. I asked Hortense about the last game of Prison Bars, which is all the rage at Malmaison. I engaged her for the third dance. I promised her some Cherokee roses, and I must write to Turner about them. She asked why papa did not bring you, and I said you were to enter a Spanish convent. She guessed by my eye that this was nonsense, and then we had a deal of fun about it. The chamberlain was fuming and swearing inwardly, but the General and Madame Buonaparte would not let papa go on. Papa was splendid! You would have thought he had been at court all his life. At last he tore himself away. I bowed to Madame, who smiled. I bowed to the First Consul, and he said: "Ah, Monsieur, Eugène est au désespoir de vous voir." I smiled, and bowed again. And so papa and I were free.

But there were ever so many people looking on, and I was so proud to present to him this and that of my friends! I brought Lagrange to him, who taught us our mathematics when I was in the Polytechnic. Lagrange brought up La Place, who is another of our great men. I presented him to Madame Berthollet, and to Madame Campan, who is a favorite here, and to Madame Morier; and they all asked him such funny questions! You know they all think that we live close by Niagara, and breakfasted every day with General Washington, and that all of us who were old enough fought in the battle of Bunker Hill, while of course we were all playmates with Madame Buonaparte.

At last the dancing came. The rooms are not very large, but large enough; and the music,—oh, Inez, dear, it was ravissante! The First Consul took out a hideous creature,—I forget her name,—but she was a returned émigrée, of a great royalist family, who had buried her prejudices, or pretended to. General Junot took out Madame,—that was a couple worth seeing! I danced with M'lle Poitevin,—a lovely girl; but I must tell of her another time. Oh, Inez, the First Consul dances—well—horridly! He hates to dance. He called for that stupid old "Monaco," as he always does, because he cannot make so many mistakes in it. Well, he only danced this first time, and I had charming dances with M'lle Julie Ramey, and then with the lovely Hortense. Was not I the envied of the evening, then!

It was then that, looking round to see how papa fared, M'lle Hortense caught my eye and said so roguishly, "Ah! Monsieur, que vous épouvante—we will take good care of your papa. See, the Consul himself has charge of him!" True enough, the Consul had found him, and led him across to a quiet place by the conservatory door;—and, Inez, they talked the whole evening again.

And it was in this talk,—when papa had been explaining to him what a sin and shame it was that so fine a country as Louisiana should have been given over to that beast of a Charles Fourth, and that miserable Godoy,—only, I suppose, he put it rather better,—that the Consul smiled, tapped his snuff-box, gave papa snuff, and said: "Monsieur Perry, you Americans can keep secrets. You may count yourselves republicans from to-day." Papa did not know what he meant, and said so plumply.

Then he told papa that he had received an express from Madrid that very morning. Inez, an article is signed by which Louisiana is given back to France. Think of that! The Orleans girls may dance French dances and sing French songs as much as they please, and old Casa-Calvo may go hang himself!

Only, Inez, you must not tell any one; it is a secret article, and the First Consul said that no public announcement of any sort was to be made.

Now, after that, who says it is not profitable to go to court? I am sure papa will never say so again. But the paper is all out, and the oil is all out in my new Argand. Salute dear Aunt Eunice with my heart's love, and believe me, ma chére sœur, Votre frère tres devoué,ROLAND PERRY.

CHAPTER XVI. NEWS? WHAT NEWS?

NEWS ! great news ! in the "London Gazette!" But what the news is I will not tell you yet; For, if by misfortune my news I should tell, Why never a "London Gazette" should I sell. —CRIES OF LONDON.

THESE letters from Paris did not, of course, reach Eunice and Inez till the short winter if winter it may be called of Texas was over; and February found them enjoying the wonders and luxuries of that early spring.