Such fortune! Such beauty! Miss Percival arrived in Paris on the 15th
of April; a fortnight had not passed before the offers of marriage began
to pour upon her. In the course of that first year, she might, had she
wished it, have been married thirty-four times, and to what a variety of
suitors!

They asked her hand for a young exile, who, under certain circumstances,
might be called to ascend a throne--a very small one, it is true, but a
throne nevertheless.

They asked her hand for a young duke, who would make a great figure at
Court when France--as was inevitable--should recognize her errors, and
bow down before her legitimate masters.

They asked her hand for a young prince, who would have a place on the
steps of the throne when France--as was inevitable--should again knit
together the chain of the Napoleonic traditions.

They asked her hand for a young Republican deputy, who had just made a
most brilliant debut in the Chamber, and for whom the future reserved the
most splendid destiny, for the Republic was now established in France on
the most indestructible basis.

They asked her hand for a young Spaniard of the purest lineage, and she
was given to understand that the 'contrat' would be signed in the palace
of a queen, who does not live far from the Arc de Triomphe. Besides, one
can find her address in the 'Almanach Bottin', for at the present day,
there are queens who have their address in Bottin between an attorney and
a druggist; it is only the kings of France who no longer live in France.