Beautiful weather favored the solemnity.

Charles had regained all his youth, all his good humor; he appeared to be transfigured; hearts seemed to smile on him like the sun.

Amongst this noisy crowd of courtiers and worshipers, who did not appear to remember they had conducted to the scaffold at Whitehall the father of the new king, a man, in the garb of a lieutenant of musketeers, looked, with a smile upon his thin, intellectual lips, sometimes at the people vociferating their blessings, and sometimes at the prince, who pretended emotion, and who bowed most particularly to the women, whose _bouquets_ fell beneath his horse's feet.
"What a fine trade is that of king!" said this man, so completely absorbed in contemplation that he stopped in the middle of the road, leaving the _cortege_ to file past.

"Now, there is, in good truth, a prince all bespangled over with gold and diamonds, enamelled with flowers like a spring meadow; he is about to plunge his empty hands into the immense coffer in which his now faithful--but so lately unfaithful--subjects have amassed one or two cartloads of ingots of gold.

They cast _bouquets_ enough upon him to smother him; and yet, if he had presented himself to them two months ago, they would have sent as many bullets and balls at him as they now throw flowers.