The Third Napoleon, with eyes that none could read--a quiet, self-possessed enigma--passed down the aisle between his ranked soldiers, and the religious part of the day's festivities was over. Paris promised to be _en fete_ while daylight lasted, and at night a display of fireworks of unprecedented splendour was to close the festive celebration. There is no lighter heart than that which beats within the narrow waistcoat of the little Parisian bourgeois, unless indeed it be that in the trim bodice of madame his wife; and even within the church walls we could hear the sound of merriment in the streets. When the Emperor had gone we all moved towards the doors of the church, congratulating each other, embracing each other, laughing and weeping all in one breath. One near to me seized my hand. "You are English!" he cried. "I am." "Then embrace me." We embraced. "Waterloo"--he called it Vatterlo--"is forgotten. It is buried in the Crimea," cried this emotional son of Gaul. He was a stout man who had partaken of garlic at dejeuner. "It is," I answered. And we embraced again. Then I got away from him. It was gratifying but inexpedient to be an Englishman at that moment, and John Turner, whose clothes were made in Paris, silently denied me and edged away. Others seemed desirous of burying Waterloo also, but I managed the obsequies of that great victory with a shake of the hand. "Vive l'Empereur!" they cried. "Long live Napoleon!" And I shouted as loud as any. Whatever one may think, it is always wise to agree with the mob. On the steps of the church I found John Turner awaiting me. "Finished embracing your new-found friend?" he asked me, with a shortness which may have been a matter of breath. At all events, it was habitual with this well-fed philosopher. "We were forgetting Waterloo," I answered. At that moment a merry laugh behind us made me turn. It was not directed towards myself, and was doubtless raised by some incident which had escaped our notice. The mere fact that this voice was raised in merriment did not make me wheel round on my heel as if I had been shot. It was the voice itself--some note of sympathy which I seemed to have always known and yet never to have heard until this moment. A strange thing--the reader will think--to happen to a man in his thirties, who had knocked about the world, doing but little good therein, as some are ready and even anxious to relate. Strange it may be, but it was true. I seemed to have known that voice all my life--and it was only the merry laugh of a heedless girl. Has any listened to the prattle of the schoolroom without hearing at odd moments the tone of some note that is not girlish--the voice of the woman speaking gravely through the chatter of the child?