By this time we arrived at the Luxembourg, and Duchesne, with all the coolness in the world, joined a knot of persons engaged in discussing the duel, and endeavoring, by sundry clever and ingenious explanations, to account for the circumstance.
As I sauntered along to my quarters, I pondered over the adventure and the character of the chevalier; and however I might turn the matter in my mind, one thought was ever uppermost,—a sincere wish that I had not been made his confidant in the secret.
CHAPTER XII. THE RETURN OF THE WOUNDED
A few mornings after this occurrence, when, as Duchesne himself prophesied, all memory of it was completely forgotten, the ordre du jour from the Tuileries commanded all the troops then garrisoned in Paris to be under arms at an early hour in the Champs Élysées, when the Emperor would pass them in review. The spectacle had, however, another object, which was not generally known. The convoys of the wounded from Austerlitz were that same day to arrive at Paris, and the display of troops was intended at once to honor this entrée, and give to the sad procession of the maimed and dying the semblance of a triumph. Such were the artful devices which ever ministered to the deceit of the nation, and suffered them to look on but one side of their glory.
As I anticipated, the chevalier was greatly out of temper at the whole of this proceeding. He detested nothing more than those military displays which are got up for the populace; he despised the exhibition of troops to the vulgar and unmeaning criticism of tailors and barbers; and, more than all, he shrank from the companionship of the National Guard of Paris,—those shop-keeping soldiers, with their umbrellas and spectacles, who figured with such pride on these occasions.
“Another affair like this,” said he, passionately, “and I'd resign my commission. A procession at the Porte St. Martin,—the boeuf gras on Easter Monday,—I'm your man for either: but to sit bolt upright on your saddle for three, maybe four hours; to be stared at by every bourgeois from the Rue du Bac; to be pointed at with pink parasols and compared with some ribbon-vender of the Boulevards,—par Saint Louis! I can't even bear to think of it! Look yonder,” said he, pointing to the court of the Palace, where already a regiment was drawn up under arms, and passing in inspection before the colonel; “there begins the dress-rehearsal already. His Majesty says mid-day; the generals of division draw out their men at eleven o'clock; the colonels take a look at their corps at ten; the chefs de bataillon at nine; and, parbleu!the corporals are at work by daybreak. Then, what confounded drilling and dressing up, as if Napoleon could detect the slightest waving of the line over two leagues of ground; while you see the luckless adjutants flying hither and thither, cursing, imprecating, and threatening, and hastily reiterating at the head of each company, 'Remember, men, be sure to remember, that when the drums beat to arms, you shout “Vive l'Empereur!”' Rely upon it, Burke, if we had but one half of these preparations before a battle, we 'd not be the dangerous fellows those Russians and Austrians think us.”
“Come, come,” said I, “you shall not persuade me that the soldiers feel no pride on these occasions. The same men who fight so valiantly for their Emperor—”
“Stop there, I beg of you,” said he, bursting into a fit of laughter. “I must really cry halt now. So long as you live, my dear friend, let nothing induce you to repeat that worn cant, 'Fight for their Emperor!' Why, they fought as bravely for Turenne, and Villars, and Maréchal Saxe; they were as full of courage under Moreau, and Kleber, and Desaix, and Hoche; ay, and will be again when the Emperor is no more, and Heaven knows who stands in his place. The genius of a French army is fighting, not for gain, nor plunder, nor even for glory, so much as for fighting itself; and he is the best man who gives them most of it. What reduced the reckless hordes of the Revolution to habits of discipline and obedience but the warlike spirit of their leaders, whose bravery they respected? And think you Napoleon himself does not feel this in his heart, and know the necessity of continual war to feed the insatiable appetite of his followers? In a word, my friend,” added he, in a tone of mock solemnity, “we are a great people; and Nature intended us to be so by giving us a language in which Gloire rhymes with Victoire. And now for the march, for I fancy we are late enough already.”
There are few sources of annoyance more poignant than to discover any illusion we have long indulged in assailed by the sneers and sarcasms of another, who assumes a tone of superior wisdom on the faith of a difference of opinion. The mass of our likings and dislikings find their way into our heart more from impulse than reason, and when attacked are scarcely defensible by any effort of the understanding. This very fact renders us more painfully alive to their preservation, and we shrink instinctively from any discussion of them. While such is the case, we feel more bitterly the cruelty of him who, out of mere wantonness, can sport with the sources of our happiness, and assail the hidden stores of so many of our pleasures; for unhappily the mockery once listened to lies associated with the idea forever.