“The dinner which succeeded the grand reception I shall never forget. Everyone had expected that the conversation would have been most interesting; that the most important topic of the day would have been duly discussed and commented upon. Each guest had come prepared with his own peculiar suggestion concerning the most effective entry into Paris. Each one had his bon-mot for approval, some appropriate phrase to be printed in the journals. I myself am forced to plead guilty to the like ambition, and obtained the honour of preference over many which, in my opinion, were far better and more piquant than my ‘_Français de plus_,’ although its subsequent popularity justified in some measure its adoption. Whatever might have been our anticipations, it soon became evident that the monarch had learned one great accomplishment during his exile, and he ate in silence of every dish which was presented to him. The court, principally composed of men who had been accustomed to the rapid and noisy dinners of the Emperor, soon began to grow weary of the tedious deglutition of the king, and became ere long reduced to be the mere spectators of his enjoyment. “Not one single word had been spoken during the whole of the first course. It would be impossible to describe the extraordinary effect of that silence, undisturbed save by the timid rattle of the knives and forks, and the hesitating steps of the servants. We gazed at each other with embarrassment. No one dared to speak even to his neighbour save in a whisper; when, just about the middle of the second course, an event occurred which served to arouse us from the stupor into which we had fallen. The king was about to help himself from the dish of spinach which had been handed to him by the servant, when the intention was suddenly arrested by a loud exclamation from the Duke de Duras, who, rising from his chair, and leaning forward with an earnest and stricken look, exclaimed, ‘For the love of Heaven, your Majesty, touch not that spinach!’ The king let fall the spoon which was already half way towards his plate, and raised his eyes in alarm—he was pale as death. There were few, indeed, at the table who did not change countenance at this unexpected exclamation. Suspicions of foul treason—of premeditated crime, immediately filled every eye, and we looked aghast towards the duke for an explanation. Even I myself, although prepared by experience for every exaggeration of court flattery, could not resist the dread of some terrible disclosure. “‘_Pourquoi pas?_’ faltered out the king, his nasal twang rendered even more tremulous than usual by the terror under which he laboured. “‘Oh, sire, I warn you—be advised by me; eat not of that spinach—it is drest with most villanous butter!’