politeness. A noble life had been saved, a terrible calamity averted.
The polished manner of the _salon_ was dropped. A _wife_ spoke, a
_woman_ listened. The visit was already a long one when Jean Palliot
took charge of the equipage, and, on leaving, it was into _his_ hand the
gentleman thrust a roulette of Napoleons.

"Sir," cried the indignant coachman, "a soldier of the Grand Army is not
a beggar."

"It is not the gold, but the portraits of his commander I give the
soldier of the Grand Army."

"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed the now affrighted veteran, "it is
Napoleon!--_Vive l'Empereur!_"

* * * * *

Of the history of that attempt on the life of Napoleon, the world is
fully informed. That, thanks to a fortunate warning, the Imperial coach
was lined with boiler-iron, is well known. That warning, by direction of
her husband, was written by Madame Althie Pontalba, and delivered by me.

That the destructive missiles were manufactured in Birmingham, England,
our Minister Plenipotentiary has good cause to remember; but that they
were smuggled into Paris in the guise of egg-plants, and deposited in
the grass-plot in rear of house No. 30 of that now memorable street, I
believe is still a mystery.

That Count Felice Orsini (the man executed) was concealed for weeks, is
on record at the Prefecture; but that he assumed the position of a