the festival of the church and of the army.

The Imperial and the pontifical processions returned to the Archbishop's
Palace, and half an hour later proceeded to the Tuileries, through the New
Market, the Place du Chatelet, the rue Saint Denis, the boulevards, the
rue and the Place de la Concorde, the Pont Tournant, and the grand roadway
of the castle. Night had fallen; the houses were illuminated. Five hundred
torches cast their light on the two processions, and by their imposing and
strange brilliancy, the crowd gazed with interest on the new Charlemagne
and the Vicar of Christ.

Napoleon and Josephine re-entered the Tuileries at half past six; the Pope
at about seven. The Emperor, who was somewhat tired by all this ceremony,
gladly resumed his modest uniform of Colonel of the Chasseurs of the
Guard. He dined alone with Josephine, asking her to keep on her head the
becoming diadem which she wore so gracefully. That evening he chatted
pleasantly with the ladies-in-waiting, and praised the rich dresses they
had worn in such splendor at Notre Dame; he said to them, laughing: "It's
I who deserve the credit for your charming appearance." Then they looked
out of the windows on the illuminated garden, the large flower-garden
surrounded with porches covered with lights, the long alley adorned with
shining colonnades, on the terraces of orange-trees all aglow, with a
number of glasses of various colors on every tree, and finally on the
Place de la Concorde, one blazing star. It was like a sea of flame.

It was the painter who had been a member of the Convention, the
_montagnard_, the regicide who had insulted Louis XVI., who had painted
the apotheosis of Marat, and with a malicious hand had drawn the features
of Marie Antoinette on her way to the scaffold; it was this artist, this
fierce demagogue, the ardent Revolutionist, who was commissioned with