This sceptical monarch wishes for Paris; he longs for it, but he must choose between his faith and the beautiful city: "Enough," he murmurs, "after all Paris is well worth a mass!" And he changes his religion, as he would have changed his coat. Is it not a fact, however, that the witticism caused a ready acceptance of the deed? "Paris is well worth a mass," raised a laugh among the choicer spirits, and there was no violent indignation over the change. Has he not become the patron of all fathers of families, by the question put to the Spanish Ambassador, who found him playing at horses with the Dauphin: "Are you a father, M. l'Ambassadeur?" The Spaniard replied: "Yes, sir." "In that case," said the King, "we will go on." But he made a conquest for all eternity of the heart of France, of the _bourgeoisie,_ and of the people, by the finest phrase that prince ever pronounced,--a real inspiration of genius, full of depth, heartiness, sharpness, and good sense. "If God prolongs my life, I hope to see in my kingdom no peasant so poor, that he cannot put a fowl in the pot for his Sunday's dinner." It is with words such as these, that enthusiastic and foolish crowds are flattered and governed. By a couple of clever sayings, Henry IV. has drawn his own portrait for posterity. One cannot pronounce his name, without at once having a vision of the white plumes, and of the delicious flavour of a _poule-au-pot._ Louis XIII. made no happy hits. This dull King had a dull reign. Louis XIV. created the formula of absolute personal power: "The State is myself." He gave the measure of royal pride in its fullest expansion: "I have almost had to wait." He set the example of sonorous political phrases, which make alliances between two nations: "The Pyrenees exist no longer!" All his reign is in these few phrases. Louis XV., most corrupt of Kings, elegant and witty, has bequeathed to posterity that delightful keynote of his supreme indifference: "After me, the deluge." If Louis XVI. had been inspired enough to perpetrate one witticism, he might possibly have saved his kingdom. With one _bon mot,_ might he not perhaps have escaped the guillotine? Napoleon I. scattered around him by handfuls, the sayings that were suited to the hearts of his soldiers. Napoleon III. extinguished with one brief phrase, all the future indignation of the French nation in that first promise: "The Empire is peace." The Empire is peace! superb declaration, magnificent lie! After having said that, he might declare war against the whole of Europe, without having anything to fear from his people. He had found a simple, neat, and striking formula, capable of appealing to all minds, and against which facts would be no argument. He made war against China, Mexico, Russia, Austria, against all the world. What did it matter? There are people yet, who speak with sincere conviction of the eighteen years of tranquillity he gave to France: "The Empire is peace."