THERE is nothing of which we hear oftener than this. When we are children our nurses charm us, and make us envious with their marvelous stories of life in the palaces. Can we ever forget the Prince Charming, and what the princess wore—her dress the color of the sun; how she rode in a carriage ornamented all over with big rubies; that her scepter was a single diamond, and her crown made of stars snatched from heaven. Later the Almanach de Gotha recalls these golden fables of our infancy, and we see again the queens with their blonde hair and bright eyes, their crowns high upon their heads, and their great cloaks of velvet trailing from their shoulders. They smile with the smile of tranquil goddesses; they are beautiful among the beautiful, happy among the happy; before them one bows or goes upon his knees; the earth is made sweet by the caress of their feet; men only breathe as they nod: joy is everywhere about them. O sovereigns! O rulers! look what destiny has done for you. Queen Victoria reached the throne—adorable, charming! Crowned at Westminster when just sixteen, she married the husband of her choice, one of those Coburgs, who were the handsomest men of their time. She loved so passionately that she poisoned her own life and that of her husband, who was a martyr to her idolatry. Her jealous imagination saw infidelity everywhere and always; ladies once her dear friends became odious to her. She drove away the ladies of honor, and at a court ball she slapped the face of a pretty girl to whom Prince Albert had addressed a few words. A day came when death called this husband, so fondly loved, and on that day died also England's queen. The heart had gone out of the body of the woman, and nothing was left. Everything seemed to have been brusquely torn away, and so great was her despair, and so long did it last, that, years afterwards, they discussed a regency in Parliament. The motion was defeated, but after the living corpse of her who had been Victoria came from time to time to open Parliament, the English, who respect the dynasty, lowered themselves before the eternal grief of the old woman, for they saw still the crown of the queen above the widow's cap, but she never smiled save when the name of Prince Albert was mentioned. The Queen of Belgium has an only son. This child of ten years is as sweet and exquisite as a cherub. This royal infant is sick. It is night, and he suffers, for he burns with fever. He tries to smother his cries of pain. The queen, notwithstanding his agony, worn out with long watching, and obeying the supplications of her ladies, retires for a little repose. But she cannot sleep. She leaves her bed and returns in haste to her son. She approaches softly. The prince appears to be soundly sleeping. His breathing is equal and easy. The pale face of Maria Henriette lightens with happiness. The boy is then saved, since he can sleep. She goes out. Then the royal baby calls to the doctor. The doctor bends over him. "Do not tell mother," he says, "it makes her so happy to think that I sleep." The child will never be a king. To-morrow, in the evening, he is dead. It is ten years since the Belgian prince is dead, and no other child has come to the queen. At Brussels they seldom see her. She is always with herself. If she goes out she hears nothing, sees nothing. Her hair is white. Her dress is always black. Her ladies of honor are old and ugly, and made still more ugly by the ugly ennui of this court in lethargy. No one dare smile before the queen, who still weeps, who weeps always, and who cries, "For me there is nothing more in the world!" All alone the Empress of Russia plunges into the intoxication of her tears. She knows that for a long time the true crown of the empress is not that which she wears. She has always with her the portrait of the emperor—the likeness of the man who loves her no more. Margaret of Italy dies slowly with a terrible malady. She knows that her days are numbered. The Empress Eugenie lies upon the ground with the seven spears driven right through her heart. Throne, husband, son, beauty—are all gone. For having touched the crown of Spain, two young queens fall as if struck by lightning. The duchess of Aosta flies to Italy, and wastes in sickness and agony to death. Mercedes, that queen of eighteen years, for whom life seemed so full, is cold as marble in her tomb. Christina of Austria hears nothing but the noise of the pistol, sees nothing but the gleam of the dagger. Maximilian went to Mexico, and paid for his ambition with his life. When the grave closed over him it held also the world for Carlotta. Since then her present is the past. Her brain is blinded, and she does not even know that she suffers.—From the French.