their articles of the preceding year, and to recount anew how these great official battues are organized by the guardians and under-guardians of the national preserves, and by other functionaries of the presidential household.

The ceremonial of these hunts varies somewhat with the different Presidents; under M. Loubet, for example, who, more than any other President, is a true "child of the people," there is nothing especially impressive about them.

Under M. Félix Faure, on the contrary, there was a greater display of monarchical state than is seen to-day, a circumstance, by the way, to which the enemies of M. Faure did not fail to call attention. From his time these hunts have become events of considerable importance. He was never happier than when presiding over the republic, gun in hand, and surrounded by distinguished guests, in the Rambouillet forest; and he caused a magnificent work to be prepared by the keeper of the national preserves, the art direction of which was confided to me. The edition was limited to a hundred and fifty copies, and it was printed by the national printingoffice. Copies, with a preface written by President Faure, were sent to the various kings, princes, grand dukes, ambassadors, and others with whom he had hunted or had had diplomatic or personal relations, or to those to whom, for some reason or other, he wished to present a souvenir.

Félix Faure, good and large-hearted man, albeit a little intoxicated by his popularity, was said to be extremely particular on points of etiquette, and the almost royal state that he maintained demanded a rule of precedence at which the French people were inclined to laugh a little. All this, however, was for the most part mere newspaper talk, for at heart he was simplicity itself.

of Yveline, country of the Druids, and famous hunting-ground of the Carnute and the proud Gaul-few districts indeed are richer in historic associations or memories of the chase.

Cæsar, in his " Commentaries," describes the hunting there of a wild bull as large as an elephant; and it was there that the last of the Druids found a final refuge from the pursuing Romans. Dolmens, druidical stones, Gaulish settlements, Roman camps - all are to be found in Rambouillet.

Clovis, finding himself ill one day, in order to appease God, presented the forest to the church of Rheims, while Pepin took it away from Rheims and gave it to St. Denis.

Charlemagne made a brave show on the occasions when he hunted there, accompanied by his empress, the beautiful Luitgard, and by those wonderful princesses with the names of fairies, Bertha, Gisela, Rhodaid, Theodrada, Hiltrud, each wearing a golden diadem and mounted upon a superb charger.

There Carloman was killed by a wild boar, Hugh Capet built a château, Robert the Pious and Henry I reveled, and Louis VI died. After Louis VII, from 1204 to 1491 it was still the custom, in the intervals of the crusades, to hunt in Rambouillet, while from the time of Charles VIII to our own day each successive King of France has there followed the royal hunt, as his forefathers did before him.

Francis I, whom the savants named the "father of letters," but who is known among sportsmen as the "father of hunting," died at the Rambouillet château, in a room at the top of the great tower. It was in the château, too, that Catharine de' Medici anxiously awaited news of the struggle between the Duke of Guise and the Protestants, and there Henry III took refuge when he fled from Paris. Henry IV squandered at Rambouillet, says Sully, a yearly sum of one million two hundred thousand écus.

THE SALUTE-THE LATE PRESIDENT FÉLIX FAURE IN A STREET OF RAMBOUILLET

bingers, bakers, cooks, etc. A hunting party of that day was as complicated as a coronation ceremony.

Louis XIV hunted but little, and came to Rambouillet only to bore himself in royal fashion. His historiographer kept a journal of how the "Grand Monarque passed each day: there we find notes of coursing occasionally, interspersed with accounts of banquets, concerts, receptions of courtezans, and councils of state.

It was there that the Marquise de Rambouillet, the oracle of good taste, used to render her verdicts. She would pace back and forth, surrounded by the young ladies of her household, all arrayed like nymphs, discussing philosophy, literature, and "good taste."

Louis XV filled the château with gobelins, rare porcelain, masterpieces of every description; while Watteau embellished the walls, lined the stairways, and draped the windows of this truly royal abode. Louis XVI, when his throne began to tremble beneath the first shocks of the Revolution, abandoned himself more than ever to the pleasures of the chase; at this period there are almost daily entries like the following in his journal:

1789, Monday, 9 November. Nothing. My aunts came to dinner.

hunt.

There was a stag

1790, Tuesday, 4 February. Sitting of the National Assembly, and audience to a deputation from the Assembly. Stag hunt at Rambouillet.

It was from Rambouillet that Napoleon went forth, unescorted. The Hundred Days, Waterloo, the abdication, farewells -all were over! He left France, and Rambouillet was his final halting-place.

Then follows the Restoration, Louis XVIII, Charles X, the Revolution of 1830, Louis Philippe, the Second Republic, Napoleon III, the Third Republic-and not a single incident in the history of France that is not in some way connected with Rambouillet, while to-day, more majestic than ever, it is the hunting-ground reserved by the republic for her Presidents, where they may play at being kings, and, in an appropriate setting, address visitors of distinction by such titles as "your Royal Highness" or "your Most Serene Highness." Thus we see that from the legendary Druids down to our own

"presidential guns," as the journalists say, Rambouillet has ever been a favorite resort of the chiefs of the state; and it was there that I had the honor to accompany the official hunts, scorning a gun, sketchbook in hand, in my quality of draftsman to President Félix Faure.

DAWN is just breaking in the east, pink and gray. A distant clock proclaims the hour, six strokes resounding deliberately through the intense stillness. Shrill cockcrowings answer the solemn notes of the angelus. It is the day of a presidential hunt, and some of the guests, in order to be in time, have passed the night at the château. Already up and dressed in hunting costume, they pace back and forth before the main vestibule, talking gaily with one another and inhaling deep draughts of the pure, sweet morning air. Spread out, in all its gorgeous setting, before their wondering gaze, is the ancient royal park. Seen thus, by the light of the rising sun, in its autumnal coloring of purple and gold, it is penetrated with a poetic and melancholy beauty. The wide avenues, lined with century-old trees the foliage of which has taken on tints of copper and vermilion at the first cold breath of autumn, are still plunged in a delicate cloud of blue-gray mist. Truly it is an enchanting hour, and the President's guests yield insensibly to its magic and penetrating influence.

The personages already assembled include the usual companions of the President on his hunting trips. All have the reputation of being excellent shots, and look very trim in their closely fitting hunting suits, with coats of fawn-colored calfskin, and small felt hats cocked over one

ear.

Suddenly a gay ringing voice is heard: "Good morning, gentlemen; and how are you all?"

It is President Faure; smiling, alert, and fresh, he shakes every one by the hand.

In response to his courteous invitation, the party enters a low room, where a hunt breakfast is served. An old keeper casts a rapid glance over the guns, and gives them a final polish.

"Well, Father Bernard," says the President to the worthy man, who, with heels close together, gives a military salute, “is

"It is a fine article, a beautiful article, M. le Président," respectfully answers the old man, who is a trained connoisseur.

Every one smiles and continues to eat, some seated, some standing, according to the individual fancy, but not a word is spoken.

Seven o'clock, and a dull rumble of approaching carriage-wheels is heard. The President listens.

"That must be his Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Alexis of Russia," he says presently. Gentlemen, we will go out to receive him."

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In a moment every one is outside, and almost immediately a pair of magnificent chestnuts appear, drawing a landau at a rapid trot up one of the avenues. It is indeed the Grand Duke Alexis, accompanied by Baron de Mohrenheim and Count Potocki.

The President and his guests courteously exchange greetings, there are some rapid presentations, followed by a little desultory conversation, and then the new arrivals swallow a cup of steaming coffee.

"Monseigneur," says the President, gaily, "have I your permission to smoke a pipe?"

"The very question I was about to put myself," says the grand duke, upon which both laugh.

President Faure draws a small brierwood pipe from his pocket, fills and lights it, imitated in each particular by the grand duke, while the rest of the company light cigars or cigarettes. All now take their places in the carriages which stand waiting to receive them; the keepers, with the guns, climb into a break, and the procession moves rapidly down the avenue. Farther on, we come upon occasional groups of peasants, who have hurried from every direction to see the President of the republic pass by with his guests. M. Faure responds courteously to their low obei

sances.

In less than half an hour the appointed rendezvous is reached. The steaming horses are brought to a standstill, and every one leaps joyously to the ground. There is a pervading spirit of gaiety and good humor, induced by the early drive and the fresh air. The blood courses more freely through one's veins, and one's lungs

of the autumnal forest. M. Leddet, Inspector-General of Forests, to whose direction the official hunts are confided, is on hand with all his people. He uncovers, and advances to meet the President and his party. The grand duke extends his hand cordially, and asks what the prospect is for a good hunt. Every prospect, it appears; but as for that, his Imperial Highness will soon have an opportunity to judge for himself.

"Ah," exclaims the President, suddenly, "here come my men!"

"Eh?" says the grand duke, smiling. "Why, those are muzhiks [Russian peasants]."

In truth, one might readily make the mistake. There are some fifty strapping, solidly built young fellows, each wearing a long blue blouse gathered in at the waist by a heavy leather belt, white caps, black velvet breeches, and half-boots, a costume which, at all events, cannot be said to lack individuality. In his hand each carries a long pole with which to thresh the bushes and so drive the game under the very guns of the sportsmen. A dozen keepers, rugged old men with gray beards and mustaches, act as guides. Almost all proudly display upon their blue-and-green forester's uniform a yellow ribbon edged with green, to which is attached a military or colonial medal. They have frank, loyal faces, bronzed by the sun and constant exposure to the open air. The guns are now taken from their cases, each sportsman shoulders his own, and the company moves forward in Indian file, the President and the grand duke, followed at a short distance by the Inspector-General of Forests, taking the

lead.

Parallel with the road are little footpaths, narrow trails which zigzag tortuously through the forest. Suspended from cords, which are braced at short intervals, are numberless tiny yellow-and-red oriflammes. They tinkle gaily at a distance of about fifty centimeters above the ground. Later they will serve to drive the game into the huntsmen's path, as, beside themselves with fear, the terrified creatures dare not pass even this frail barrier.

"Gentlemen," cries M. Faure, “to your posts!"

The President and the grand duke, under the direction of M. Leddet, station

themselves in the order of precedence. On M. Faure's right are General Hagron, Count Potocki, and M. Le Gall. On the left of the grand duke are M. de Mohrenheim, Colonel Ménétrez, and Commandant Meaux Saint-Marc.

Far down at the end of the road are seen some mounted police, stationed there to warn people off, and a detachment of soldiers in red trousers and white linen blouses is drawn up close by, ready to lend them aid, if necessary.

Behind each guest of the President walks a keeper carrying cartridges, and charged with the duty of announcing the game, noting where it falls, and picking it up. Only Father Antin, who follows behind M. Faure, carries a reserve gun.

Every one now loads; Colonel Ménétrez lifts his hand, M. Leddet blows a shrill little horn; then a clarion is heard, its metallic notes awakening the silent forest. Every one salutes. "Gentlemen, forward!" A second blast of the trumpet. "Begin firing."

With slow and cautious tread the sportsmen now plunge into the brush, following the routiers, or little paths, which wind at short distances from one another through the low underbrush. Frrou! frrou! Bang! bang! Then two rapid shots. The grand duke has emptied his barrels in Canadian fashion, and a brace of pheasants lie gasping on the ground in their death-throes. Bang! M. Félix Faure, quickly bringing his weapon to his shoulder, hits a superb hare at a distance of more than thirty feet.

On the outskirts of the preserves are men dressed in the same fashion as the beaters, who lend themselves heartily to the work in hand, and beat the bushes joyously with their long poles. They wave white-and-scarlet pennons to frighten the game and prevent it from wandering too far afield.

It is amusing to see how the entire battue steps out together. "À vous! à vous! A roe-buck!"

Count Potocki, aiming low in the flanks, brings the creature to its knees; it rises and leaps forward. Pan! M. Félix Faure, with a charge of buck-shot, quiets it for

ever.

The gunners press on. The copses are filled with the acrid smell of powder, and through the stillness of the forest the shots

sound sharp and clear, now measured, now in quick succession.

"Cease firing!" sounds from the shrill little horn.

What is the matter?" inquires Baron de Mohrenheim of his old attendant.

"We are coming to the road, M. l'Ambassadeur; they are going to assemble the battue and take a short breathing-space."

Drawn up in line on the verge of the wood, with their backs turned toward it, the sportsmen are gathered; but the beaters continue, with savage yells, to thresh the bushes with their long poles.

Meanwhile the sun has risen in a sky dappled over with fleecy white clouds; the splendor of the forest is quite indescribable. What a marvelous landscape! It is like nothing so much as a painting by Théodore Rousseau. Mighty oaks are there, with foliage of bronze, russet-colored beeches, slender birch-trees with silver bark and upreaching boughs, while far away in the distance the poplars hang their golden leaves like a curtain against the blue of the sky.

“À vous! à vous! A hare!"

Sure enough, a beautiful hare bounds into the open.

Bang! bang! The creature makes a dash for the thicket, and disappears.

“À vous! à vous! A rabbit!" Bang! And the pretty little animal writhes on the ground, its glossy white and fawn-colored breast soiled with blood and dust. General Hagron meantime has achieved some marvelous "doubles," while the President and the grand duke have been raising hecatombs.

Impassively the keepers, pencil and note-book in hand, number the pieces, jot them down, and pass over cartridges, only opening their lips to announce the game. In the copses the beaters continue their infernal clatter.

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À vous! A roe-buck! Two roe-bucks!" Ah, the pretty creatures! Terrified, they turn to fly, with such light and graceful movements that

Bang! bang! They are the grand duke's shots. One animal falls to the ground, the other lies dying in the ditch. He tries to rise, bellowing softly, plaintively. A keeper despatches him.

Thus it continues for half an hour longer; then, upon a sign from the President, M. Leddet gives the signal to cease firing, the