On the top of the Arc de Triomphe was an imposing apotheosis of Napoleon. Each side of the Pont de la Concorde was adorned with huge statues. On the Esplanade des Invalides the car passed between an avenue of thirty-two statues of great French kings, heroes, and heroines—Charles Martel, Charlemagne, Clovis, Bayard, Jeanne d’Arc, Latour d’Auvergne, Ney. The chivalry and valor of France welcomed Napoleon home. Oddly enough, this hedge of statues ended in one of Napoleon himself; the incongruity of the arrangements struck even the _gamins_. “Tiens,” cried one urchin, “voilà comme l’empereur fait la queue à lui-mème.” (“Hello, see there how the emperor brings up his own procession.”) The procession passed quietly from one end to the other of the route, to the great relief of the authorities. Difficulty was anticipated from several sources: from the Anglophobes, the Revolutionists, the Legitimists, the Bonapartists, and the great mass of dissatisfied, who, no matter what form of rule they are under, are always against the government. The greatest fear seems to have been on the part of the English. Thackeray, who was in town at the time, gives an amusing picture of his own nervousness on the morning of the 15th. “Did the French nation, or did they not, intend to offer up some of us English over the imperial grave? And were the games to be concluded by a massacre? It was said in the newspapers that Lord Granville had despatched circulars to all the English residents in Paris, begging them to keep their homes. The French journals announced this news, and warned us charitably of the fate intended for us. Had Lord Granville written? Certainly not to me. Or had he written to all _except me_? And was _I the victim_—the doomed one?—to be seized directly I showed my face in the Champs Elysées, and torn in pieces by French patriotism to the frantic chorus of the Marseillaise? Depend on it, Madame, that high and low in this city on Tuesday were not altogether at their ease, and that the bravest felt no small tremor. And be sure of this, that as his Majesty Louis Philippe took his nightcap off his royal head that morning, he prayed heartily that he might at night put it on in safety.” Fortunately Thackeray’s courage conquered, and so we have the entertaining “Second Funeral of Napoleon,” by “Michael Angelo Titmarsh.” In spite of all forebodings, the hostile displays were nothing more than occasional cries of “_A bas les Anglais_,” a few attempts to promenade the tricolor flag and drown _Le Premier Capitaine du Monde_ by the Marseillaise, and a strong indignation when it was learned that the representatives of the allies had refused to be present at the final ceremony. Most of the observers of the funeral attributed the good order of the crowd to the cold. A correspondent of the “National Intelligence” of that date says: