emerald that would have bought bread for a million; as a young child, half naked, sobbed, homeless, under the pitiless cold, and a State Messenger, mapped in furs, was rolled in his travelling carriage through the bright gaslit streets. The Royal Courier was lying, stretched nearly at length on his carriage-bed, while he dashed through the capital full speed, not losing a moment to get through to Persia.
There was plenty of time to sleep while the train tore through the night to Marseilles, and he raised himself on his arm and looked out at the old familiar, welcome streets of Paris; a mistress for every new-comer, a friend to every well-worn returning traveller, a syren ever fresh, ever dear, ever unrivalled. As he did so, the carriage was passing down the Rue Lepelletier and before the Opera, where the doors had just opened for one of those balls to which all Paris proper (or improper) flocks. The throng was great; the wheel of his carriage nearly locked in another, whose gas-lamps, flashing of the snow, lighted up the face of a woman within, with the azure of sapphires glancing above her brow. The Queen's Messenger started up from his carriage-couch and threw himself forward; his postboy saved the collision, his horses dashed on without a pause.
