The duke of Wellington succeeded Napoleon in his residence at the Elysee-Bourbon, since then fitted up as the dower-palace of Eugenie, and now the head-quarters of President MacMahon. Gay, fickle Paris, oblivious of disaster, was shouting hosannas to the victor of its erewhile idol, and in this carnival of _fetes_ those of the duke were surpassingly magnificent. Mme. Bonaparte describes Wellington as "short, erect, spare of figure, with long pale face, thin-lipped, obstinate mouth, small light eyes, high, sharp, angular nose, the head disproportionately large, and as squarely flat as an Indian's, reverence and benevolence being undeveloped. Coldly quiet in voice and greeting, simple and high-bred in manner, there was in this reticence a suggestion of reserved force exceedingly attractive." At one of these balls Mme. Bonaparte was seated in conversation with the handsome and fascinating Lord Castlereagh, when Mme. de Stael approached, and stopping in front of her gazed steadily for a moment, then turning to her son, Baron de Stael-Holstein, on whose arm she leaned, an intimate friend of Mme. Bonaparte, she said, "Oui, elle est bien, bien jolie," and walked off without another word. Near by sat Lady Morgan, whose success, literary and social, was phenomenal. As Sidney Owenson, soon after her _Wild Irish Girl_ made her famous, she sat awestruck opposite to Dr. Johnson at a large London dinner, when suddenly, to the terror of the child, untamed as her own heroine, burly Samuel called across in severe tones, "Little girl! little girl! where did you get so many hard words?"--"Please, sir, in your dictionary," was the naive reply that disarmed the lexicographer. In Lady Morgan's _Memoirs_ we read: "Mme. Bonaparte, wife of Jerome, who had abandoned her in a cruel and dastardly way, was not of the _pate_ out of which victims and martyrs are made. She held her difficult position with a scornful courage that excites pity for the woman's nature so scathed and outraged. Her letters bear the impress of a life run to waste: they are clever, mordant and amusing, but the bitter sense of wrong cannot be concealed: there is a dissatisfaction--one might almost call it jealousy--in the topics discussed." Mme. Bonaparte keeps her friend _au courant_ with Paris gossip, but we have only space to glance at the revelation of her weary, empty heart: "PARIS, November, 1816. DEAR LADY MORGAN: I have executed all your commissions except that _aupres de_ Mme. de Genlis. I have been so unwell it has been impossible for me to visit the penitent at the Carmelites. I meet the princess de Beauveau every week at Mme. Rumford's, where there is an assemblage of _gens d'esprit_--not that I call myself one of them. However, people say that I am very good, which is my passport to these _reunions_. I have been asking after the _Novice of St. Dominic_, which has not yet been seen by any of your friends." [William Pitt read this novel for the fifth time a few days before his