triumphal arches erected in honour of the young bride, to the last days when the fortunes of the family were diminished by revolutions and political and business crises in France.  They moved from St. Remy, selling the chateau, and built a house on the top of a green hill near Rouen, quite shut in by big trees, and with a lovely view from the Rond Point—­the highest part of the garden, over Rouen—­with the spires of the cathedral in the distance.  I used to find her every morning when I went to her room, sitting at the window, her books and knitting on a table near—­looking down on the lawn and the steep winding path that came up from the garden,—­where she had seen three generations of her dear ones pass every day—­first her husband, then her sons—­now her grandsons.  My sister-in-law, R.’s wife, was also an Englishwoman; the daughter of the house had married her cousin, de Bunsen, who had been a German diplomatist, and who had made nearly all his career in Italy, at the most interesting period of her history, when she was struggling for emancipation from the Austrian rule and independence.  I was an American, quite a new element in the family circle.  We had many and most animated discussions over all sorts of subjects, in two or three languages, at the tea-table under the big tree on the lawn.  French and English were always going, and often German, as de Bunsen always spoke to his daughter in German.  My mother-in-law, who knew three or four languages, did not at all approve of the careless habit we had all got into of mixing our languages and using French or Italian words when we were speaking English—­if they came more easily.  She made a rule that we should use only one language at meals—­she didn’t care which one, but we must keep to it.  My brother-in-law was standing for the deputation.  We didn’t see much of him in the daytime—­his electors and his visits and speeches and banquets de pompiers took up all his time.  The beginning of his career had been very different.  He was educated in England—­Rugby and Woolwich—­and served several years in the Royal Artillery in the British army.  His military training was very useful to him during the Franco-Prussian War, when he equipped and commanded a field battery, making all the campaign.  His English brother officers always remembered him.  Many times when we were living in England at the embassy, I was asked about him.  A curious thing happened in the House of Lords one day, showing the wonderful memory of princes for faces.  R. was staying with us for a few days, when the annual debate over the bill for marriage of a deceased wife’s sister came up.  The Prince of Wales (late King Edward) and all the other princes were present in the House.  R. was there too, standing where all the strangers do, at the entrance of the lobby.  When the debate was over, the Prince of Wales left.  As he passed along, he shook hands with several gentlemen also standing near the lobby, including R. He stopped a moment in front of him, saying:  “I think this is Mr. Waddington.  The last time I saw you, you wore Her Majesty’s uniform.”  He hadn’t seen him for twenty-five or thirty years.  I asked the prince afterward how he recognised him.  He said he didn’t know; it was perhaps noticing an unfamiliar face in the group of men standing there,—­and something recalled his brother, the ambassador.