And of the next, the Prince Imperial, hurried out of France in 1870, perished on the Veldt.

The King of Rome lies in his tomb at Vienna, the Duc de Bordeaux at Goritz, the Comte de Paris at Weybridge, the Prince Imperial at Farnborough.

These are the heirs of France, born in the palace of the Tuileries.

How are they cast upon the waters of the world! And where the palace of the Tuileries once stood the pigeons now call to each other beneath the trees, while, near at hand, lolls on the public seat he whom France has always with her, the vaurien--the worth-nothing.
So passes the glory of the world.

It is not a good thing to be born in a palace, nor to live in one.
It was in the Rue Lafayette that John Turner had his office, and when he emerged from it into that long street on the evening of the 25th of August, 1850, he ran against, or he was rather run against by, the newsboy who shrieked as he pattered along in lamentable boots and waved a sheet in the face of the passer: "The King is dead! The King is dead!" And Paris--the city that soon forgets--smiled and asked what King?
Louis Philippe was dead in England, at the age of seventy-seven, the bad son of a bad father, another of those adventurers whose happy hunting-ground always has been, always will be, France.
John Turner, like many who are slow in movement, was quick in thought.
He perceived at once that the death of Louis Philippe left the field open to the next adventurer; for he left behind him no son of his own mettle.
Turner went back to his office, where the pen with which he had signed a cheque for four hundred pounds, payable to the Reverend Septimus Marvin, was still wet; where, at the bottom of the largest safe, the portrait of an unknown lady of the period of Louis XVI.