I remember well seeing Napoleon III. and the Empress Eugenie
driving down the Rue de Rivoli on their return from the races at
Longchamp. I and my brother were standing close to the edge of the
pavement, and they passed within a few feet of us. They were
driving in a char-a-banes--in French parlance, "attele a la
Daumont"--that is, with four horses, of which the wheelers are
driven from the box by a coachman, and the leaders ridden by a
postilion. The Emperor and Empress were attended by an escort of
mounted Cent-Gardes, and over the carriage there was a curious
awning of light blue silk, with a heavy gold fringe, probably to
shield the occupants from the sun at the races. I thought the
Emperor looked very old and tired, but the Empress was still
radiantly beautiful. My young brother, even then a bigoted little
patriot, obstinately refused to take off his cap. "He isn't MY
Emperor," he kept repeating, "and I won't do it." The shrill cries
of "Vive l'Empereur!" seemed to me a very inadequate substitute
for the full-throated cheers with which our own Queen was received
when she drove through London.
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