Fortunately for all concerned, the story found its way to Napoleon. At once he rubbed his Aladdin’s lamp (an article all emperors possess), and when he met his bride a few days later at Compiègne, he led her—not to a grand state-chamber, but to a cosey room, with a strangely familiar look. Her husband was a stranger; it was a new land, a new language, and new faces everywhere. But—what was that hysterical bark and scramble that greeted her on the threshold? What was that frantic little figure bounding up into her arms? What but her own little greyhound brought there with other familiar objects from her old home, by Napoleon’s thoughtful care! She welcomed her pet with a cry of delight; then turning, thanked, with wet eyes, the husband who was no longer a stranger.
A few years later, and the wheel of fortune suddenly turned. Napoleon was an exile, and Louis XVIII. (uncle to the Prisoners of the Temple) was king. About the time when his royal brother was guillotined, there also perished a M. de Vieux Pont, whose only crime was the possession of a parrot which said Vive le roi! The bird came very near sharing the fate of its master, but citizeness Lebon promised, if its life was spared, to teach it better sentiments, and was allowed to take it home. This happened in the Reign of Terror; but now when the Fat King reigned, a worse fate, through him, befell a parrot of Napoleonic sympathies. A dog had comforted Madame Royale in her prison; but neither she nor her uncle, when they arrived at power, had any pity for Napoleonists.
PET ITALIAN GREYHOUND OF MARIE LOUISE.
The parrot’s mistress had fled from her home in Ecouen on the approach of the Royalists, leaving the bird locked up in the closet of her room, with plenty of food and water. Now it so chanced that Louis XVIII. spent the night in Ecouen, on his way to Paris, and was lodged in this very room. In the midst of his slumbers, he was suddenly startled by a shrill cry, close to his ear, of Vive l’empereur! Nothing could be seen, yet again and again was the cry repeated. At last the poor, insulted, gouty king managed to pull the bell-rope and summon his attendants. After considerable search, they found a door behind the tapestry, and forced it open. There sat the criminal, chuckling to herself, and still shouting at intervals, Vive l’empereur! Poor Polly! her triumph was short. It was A bas! with Napoleonists now; in a moment her neck was wrung, and a limp little feathered body bore silent witness that the Bourbons had returned.
CARLO ALBERTO AND HIS FAVORITE HORSE.
(After the painting by Vernet. )