The slumber, or rather lethargy, into which the Prince had fallen, had continued for about an hour after my arrival, and it was curious to observe, as time drew on, the uneasiness which was manifested, even, alas! by those nearest and dearest, lest this repose, however salutary, should endure beyond the hour fixed by the king for his visit. It was with some difficulty that he was aroused from this oblivion, and made to comprehend the importance of the event which was about to occur. He was scarcely lifted from his reclining position and seated on the edge of the bed, when, punctual as the hand upon the dial, his majesty, followed by Madame Adelaide, entered the apartment. It was a study both for the moralist and painter to observe the contrast between these two individuals, as, seated thus side by side, beneath the canopy of those old green curtains, they seemed grouped as for the composition of some historical picture. It was startling to turn from the broad, expansive forehead, the calm and stoic brow, and the long and shaggy locks which overshadowed it, giving to the dying statesman that lion-like expression of countenance which had so often formed the theme of admiration to poets and to artists, and then to gaze upon the pointed crown, well-arranged _toupée_, the whole outward bearing, _tant soit peu bourgeois_, of the king, who, even at this early hour of the morning, was attired, according to his custom, with the utmost precision and primness. Despite the old faded dressing-gown of the one, and the snuff-coloured coat, stiff neckcloth, and polished boots of the other, the veriest barbarian could have told at a glance which was the “last of the nobles,” and which the “First Citizen” of the empire. His majesty was the first to break silence, as in etiquette bound to do. It would be difficult to define the expression which passed across his features as he contemplated what might be called the setting of his guiding-star. Perhaps he could not himself have rendered an account of the exact impression which the scene produced upon his mind. “I am sorry, prince, to see you suffering so much,” said he, in a low, tremulous voice, rendered almost inaudible by extreme emotion. “Sire, you have come to witness the sufferings of a dying man, and those who love him can have but one wish, that of seeing them shortly at an end.” This was uttered in that deep, strong voice so peculiar to himself, and which age had not had the power to weaken, nor the approach of death itself been able to subdue. The effect of the speech, short as it was, was indescribable,—the pause by which it was preceded, and the tone of reproach, calm and bitter, in which it was conveyed,—produced an impression which will not be soon forgotten by those who were present.