It came to the Bloommaert’s one morning as they were sitting at the breakfast table. The meal was over, but they lingered together discussing a dinner party which Annette was to give that day, and their order of going to it. It was a special dinner, to which only relatives of the family were invited, and was given in honour of Annette’s little daughter, then six weeks old. Madame was present, and took an eager interest in the affair, for the child had been called by her name; and she had with her the deed of a house in Cedar Street, which she was going to put into the little Jonaca’s hand. Leonard had promised to call for Sappha at twelve o’clock, but the judge was advising them to go early, when the parlour door was thrown open with some impetuosity, and Leonard stood looking at the group with a face full of conflicting emotions. In a moment every one had divined that he had important news, and the judge rose to his feet and asked impatiently: “What is it, Leonard?” “Two hundred thousand French troops are prisoners of war. Paris is in possession of the allies. Napoleon has been exiled. The Bourbons are again on the throne of France.” “My God! Is all this true, Leonard?” “There is not a doubt of it.” “Then I must go and see Gouverneur Morris at once. Tell Annette I will be on time for dinner.” And he hurried away with these words, and left Leonard to discuss the news and the dinner with the three excited women. There was now no unnecessary delay, for the streets were already in a state of commotion, the news having spread like wildfire. Nor could they escape the influence of the fervid atmosphere through which they passed; the glowing sunshine was not more ardent than the passionate rejoicing and the passionate hatred that challenged each other at every step of their progress. Even the shadowy stillness of the Semple gardens and the large, cool rooms of the house were full of the same restless antagonising spirit. Annette’s cousins, the Verplancks and the Van Burens, and her aunt, Joanna de Vries, speedily followed them, but it was only the women of the families that entered the house; the men hastened back to Broadway and the Battery to hear and to discuss the news. And it was hard for Annette to keep a smiling face over her angry heart. Who were the Bourbons that they should interfere with her affairs? Indeed, she complained to her grandmother bitterly of Achille’s strange conduct. He had left her in the midst of their breakfast, left her as soon as he heard the news, without one thought as to the family duties devolving on him that day. And madame had not been too sympathetic. “You have been crying, Annette,” she said. “I am afraid you have a discontented temper. For the dinner, your husband will return.”