wit ought always to be on good terms with the King here
and the Pope yonder.'"

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August, 1844.

A month or two ago the King went to Dreux. It was
the anniversary of the death of the Duke d'Orleans. The
King had chosen this day to put the coffins of his relatives
in the family vault in order.

Among the number was a coffin that contained all the
bones of the princes of the House of Orleans that the
Duchess d'Orleans, mother of the King, had been able to
collect after the Revolution, when the sepulchre was
violated and they were dispersed. The coffin, placed in
a separate vault, had recently been smashed in by the fall
of an arch. The debris of the arch, stones and plaster,
had become mingled with the bones.

The King had the coffin brought and opened before him.
He was alone in the vault with the chaplain and two
aides-de-camp. Another coffin, larger and stronger, had been
prepared. The King himself, with his own hands, took,
one after the other, the bones of his ancestors from
the broken coffin and arranged them carefully in the new