To die by the axe, all are equal to; to die by fire, most are equal to; but to die misrepresented and misunderstood, cheated of fair fame, with another’s crime fastened upon us—to die taken in the toils of an enemy, who usurps our purposes, and gives to history a lie growing with each new teller of the story—this is terrible. Pardon me; I could not but say thus much. I judge men by their acts and words, and my opinion hangs not upon another’s conclusions. I believe I have read all that has been most ably written about the revolution; in all, the acts are the same, and the words are the same, but the arrangement of the acts, and the voice given to the words, change with each several narrator. Neither Thiers, nor Allison, nor Miguet, nor Lamartine, shall speak for me; the prejudices of the Englishman, and the prejudices of the Frenchman color their vision—I am answerable for my own. When will History listen to the defense which has not yet been heard!” With such sentiments, it was not difficult to foresee what would be Charles’ policy in the Assembly. When news of the Revolution of February came, I thought at once of my friend, and expected to find him an actor amid the events then transpiring. I watched, and saw him step forth among the foremost. I listened—even at this distance—and was pleased to hear his voice among the ablest in debate. “Who knows,” said I, “what Paqueta—who rolled at my feet, and wished to be my little barber forever—may become with a people who have been democratic in their belief, and monarchical in their sentiments, since eighty-nine? One has as much right to expect sudden promotion in France, as in the East; and a slave may yet sit upon the throne of the Capets.” Paqueta was equal to either fortune; or to a better, as her true story—now drawing to its close—will tell you.