her knee and kissed the crimson velvet—I think she wept.
“It was not that velvet,” said the attendant, while a smile played round his mouth.
“But still it was here!” said the woman, “and it looked in this room just so!”
“Just so,” replied he; “and yet it was not just so either: the windows were beaten out; the doors were torn off their hinges, and there was blood upon the floor! You can say, however, for all that, that your son died upon the throne of France!”
“Died!” repeated the old woman.
No more was said; they left the hall; the shades of evening fell deeper, and the moonlight streamed in with twofold brightness on the rich velvet of the throne of France.
I will tell thee a story. It was in the revolution of July, towards evening, on the most brilliant day of victory, when every house was a fortress, every window a redoubt, the people stormed the Tuilleries. Even women and children fought among the combatants; they thronged in through the
