His Royal Highness, clothed in a dressing-gown, made of cashmere, with a cap to match, was sipping tea—a new fashion imported from England; every one knows that his Highness was thoroughly English—with a charming dame of twenty-nine or thirty years of age, clothed in an elegant morning dress, and who was, as I afterward learnt, Madame Buffon. M. le Duc d’Orleans, afterwards so celebrated under the name of Philip Egalité, was a man of from forty-four to forty-five years of age; a fat, full figure, red complexion, with a good carriage, but the head a little too large—who, on account of a quarrel with the Queen, had been cruelly and unjustly treated by the court of inquiry into the naval engagement at Ouessant, where he had comported himself most bravely. The result of this, on his side, was a most bitter hatred of the Queen. He received me with a nod of the head; Madame de Buffon regarded me with curiosity. I was far from being elegant, but I possessed great propriety of manner. Without being handsome, I was at an age when youth supplies the want of beauty. I was tall, well-made, with an open expression of countenance, and a well-knit frame. The loyalty of my heart beamed upon my face. In short, I made the same impression upon the Duc d’Orleans and Madame de Buffon as I had upon the King, the Queen, and Madame Elizabeth—that of being a well-looking lad. “You come from Varennes, my friend?” said the Duke. “Yes, monseigneur,” replied I. “And you saw all that passed at the grocer’s—what do you call him?” “Sauce, monseigneur.” “So it is. And you also saw what took place on the road?” “Monseigneur, I have not lost sight of the royal family since their arrest.” “Aha! There is a lady, a thorough Royalist. She wishes to know all that has happened to her good King and dear Queen. Will you be kind enough to give her a history of it?” I commenced the account. When I mentioned Drouet, the Duke interrupted me to ask particulars about him. When I mentioned M. Dampierre, he made another interruption. He made another when I mentioned Barnave, Pétion, and Latour-Maubourg; in fact, he wished to know even the minutest particulars. Before I had finished, “Go and find Chartres,” he said to M. de Laclos. M. de Laclos went out; I continued my recital. It was nearly brought to an end, when the door opened, and gave entrance to a handsome young man, whom I had already seen at the Jacobin Club on the occasion of my first visit to Paris. The young Prince bowed respectfully to his father, gallantly kissed Madame Buffon’s hand, threw a scrutinizing glance on me, and seemed to bend his whole attention on what was passing.