I was told by a friend, who witnessed the scene, that nothing could exceed the dramatic effect of the departure of the corpse-laden vehicle from Paris. The disinterment of the child from the lonely cemetery of Mont Parnasse—the lading of the ponderous coffin by the light of torches—the peculiar rattle of the hearse through the silent streets at that solemn hour, and beneath that calm moon, which makes “all that is dark seem darker still.” One incident is worth recording. On starting from the iron gates of the chapel, one of the postillions turned and shouted the usual question, “_Vers quelle barrière?_” and was answered by a voice proceeding from the hearse itself, “_Barrière d’Enfer_.” We arrived at Valençay on the third day after our departure from Paris, and it was at about ten o’clock on the same night that the worn and dust-covered hearse was descried wending its way up the long avenue of chestnut trees leading to the château. Every honour which had been paid to the lord of the mansion during his life was now rendered, with scrupulous exactness, to his lifeless corpse. No ceremony, however trifling, was omitted. The wide gates were thrown open to admit the sombre vehicle, which entered the court of honour with the same ceremony that had denoted the approach of the stately carriage which had been wont to drive at a somewhat ruder pace through the regal portal. The whole of the numerous household, with the heir of the domain in advance of the rest, were assembled on the perron. The Prince’s nephew himself took his seat in front of the hearse, to conduct it down into the town; the goodly array of servants and huntsmen and foresters all following on foot, and bearing torches, to the church, wherein the body was deposited for the night, previous to the final ceremony, which was to take place on the morrow. Early in the morning all was astir in the little burgh. Never before had a sight so fraught with interest been witnessed by its inhabitants. It seemed like a gala day through every street. Not a window but was crowded with spectators, while the footway was choked with peasants from all the neighbouring districts, in their gayest attire. The National Guard of the town was all afoot from the earliest hour in the morning; and altogether so cheerful was the whole aspect of the place, that the traveller who had passed through on that day would have imagined it to have been the anniversary of some great public rejoicing. The corpse of the Duke had arrived in far different plight. No pomp, no pageantry, was here—a solitary post-carriage, with a single pair of horses—no train of mourners. The physician who had attended his last illness alone accompanied the body from St. Germain.