The battle-clouds rolled off.

The silver moon, the twinkling stars, looked blandly down from the serene azure,--and all was peace--stillness--the stillness of death.

Holy, holy silence! Yes: the battle of Paris was over.

And where were the combatants?
All gone--not one left!--And where was Louis Philippe?
The venerable Prince was a captive in the Tuileries; the Irish Brigade was encamped around it: they had reached the palace a little too late; it was already occupied by the partisans of his Majesty Louis XVII.
That respectable monarch and his followers better knew the way to the Tuileries than the ignorant sons of Erin.

They burst through the feeble barriers of the guards; they rushed triumphant into the kingly halls of the palace; they seated the seventeenth Louis on the throne of his ancestors; and the Parisians read in the Journal des Debats, of the fifth of November; an important article, which proclaimed that the civil war was concluded:-- "The troubles which distracted the greatest empire in the world are at an end.