They had met before.
It was indeed a strange jumble of prince and pauper, friend and foe, patriot and adventurer.

And the face that drew my gaze oftenest was one as still and illegible now as it was on the morning of January 11, four years later, when I bowed before it at Chiselhurst.
The Third Napoleon, with eyes that none could read--a quiet, self-possessed enigma--passed down the aisle between his ranked soldiers, and the religious part of the day's festivities was over.
Paris promised to be _en fete_ while daylight lasted, and at night a display of fireworks of unprecedented splendour was to close the festive celebration.

There is no lighter heart than that which beats within the narrow waistcoat of the little Parisian bourgeois, unless indeed it be that in the trim bodice of madame his wife; and even within the church walls we could hear the sound of merriment in the streets.
When the Emperor had gone we all moved towards the doors of the church, congratulating each other, embracing each other, laughing and weeping all in one breath.
One near to me seized my hand.
"You are English!" he cried.
"I am." "Then embrace me." We embraced.
"Waterloo"-- he called it Vatterlo--"is forgotten.

It is buried in the Crimea," cried this emotional son of Gaul.

He was a stout man who had partaken of garlic at dejeuner.
"It is," I answered.
And we embraced again.