That was an eventful time for Florence, for Italy, for the whole of Europe. The spirit of revolution was abroad, and France had set a startling example to other nations. In the month of February, 1848, the Carnival was at its height, and the youth, beauty and fashion of Florence were assembled in a splendid ball-room in one of her principal palaces. I was sitting beside my dear friend Félicie de Fauveau, who had been rebuking me for dancing with _cette canaille_—for so she designated Baron Ward, Prime Minister and ex-groom of the Duke of Parma—and I had excused myself on the ground that it amused me to become acquainted with celebrities—perhaps, in this case, I had better have said notorieties—when we were all startled by the rapid entrance of a stranger. There was a pause, a hush, and then he became the centre of a little crowd that gathered round him, evidently the bearer of some strange intelligence. Félicie and I rose together to inquire the cause. It was soon told—a Revolution in France, and Louis Philippe and his whole family driven from the capital. To my companion, the news was of deep interest, for was she not devoted heart and soul to the cause of Henri Cinq? In that assembly, which contained many nationalities among the company, the intelligence was listened to with varying degrees of excitement, pleasure or indifference, while to the younger portion of the community, who cared little for the destiny of kings and governments, the paramount thought was that the _bal masqué_ at the French Embassy would not take place. [Sidenote: I PLAY THE PART OF CONSPIRATOR] The downfall of the Orleans dynasty naturally led to a renewal of hope among the more devoted and sanguine of the Legitimists, which proved, however, but short-lived. One morning, soon after the ball already alluded to, Félicie de Fauveau called upon me and asked if I could undertake a commission for her. Any messenger she could send, she explained to me—indeed, any Frenchman or Frenchwoman who was the bearer of a letter to the Duchesse de Berri—would be an object of suspicion. “Have you any fellow-countryman whom you could safely trust to carry a communication from me to that Princess?” Most fortunately, a friend of ours, an Englishman, had the day previously expatiated to me on his delight at the prospect of seeing Venice for the first time. I summoned him to our assistance, entrusted Félicie’s packet to his care, enjoined prudence and secrecy, and thus, for the first and last time in my life, played the part of conspirator, though, sooth to say, with no important or successful result.