carry about an atmosphere of life and excitement which has become proverbial. I lived three years at Saint-Germain; well, the inhabitants themselves, respectable subjects of the Sleeping Beauty, did not know themselves any longer. I communicated to the town a spirit of energy which they took at first for a sort of epidemic, a contagious fever, like that produced by the bite of the Neapolitan spider. I bought the theatre, and the best actors of Paris, coming to supper with me, played from time to time, before sitting down to table to give themselves an appetite, either _Hamlet_ or _Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle,_ or _Les Demoiselles de Saint Cyr,_ for the benefit of the poor. Ravelet had not horses enough, Collinet had not rooms enough, and the railway admitted to me, once, an increase of 20,000 francs takings per annum since I lived at Saint-Germain. It is true that, at the time of the elections, Saint-Germain considered me too _immoral_ to have the honour of being its representative. Saint-Germain had then waked up, or nearly so. It had its forest for horse exercise, went to the theatre and set up on my terrace fireworks which they sent for from Paris, to the great astonishment of Versailles, which, from time to time, rose out of its tomb and looked with vacant eyes over the hills of Louveciennes, and said in dying tones: "What is Saint-Germain doing to make such a commotion as this? Look at me, do I move? Good heavens! When one is dead, it is not a time for having fireworks, going to the play or riding on horseback! Look at me, I sleep like an Academician, and I even push respect for conventions to the point of never snoring!" Versailles lay down again in its gilded sepulchre, where, as it said, it never even snored. One day the king was annoyed by the noise which came from the direction of Saint-Germain, so much so that he took heed not to hear the faintest breath of wind coming from Versailles. He sent for M. de Montalivet, although he had no love for intellectual people. Montalivet and Vatout were the two exceptions at the court. "My dear Count," said Louis-Philippe, "do you know what has happened?" "What, sire?" "We have succeeded in waking up Saint-Germain (they had made the king think he had brought about this miracle himself); we will manage to galvanise Versailles into life, with the picture gallery and fountains, on each first Sunday in the month!" "Sire," replied Montalivet, "would you like Versailles instead of being as gloomy as death to be merry even to the point of foolishness!" "My dear Count," replied the king, "I will not conceal from you that it would give me the greatest pleasure." "Very well, Sire, Dumas has a fortnight's durance as National Guardsman: command that he spend it here at Versailles."