“Minette,” said the Emperor, while he gazed on her handsome features with evident pleasure, “your name is well known to me for many actions of kindness and self-devotion. Wear this cross of the Legion of Honor; you will not value it the less that until now it has been only worn by me. Whenever you find one worthy to be your husband, Minette, I will charge myself with the dowry.”
“Oh, Sire!” said the trembling girl, as she pressed the Emperor's fingers to her lips,—“oh, Sire, is this real?”
“Yes, parbleu!” said Pioche, wiping a large tear from his eye as he spoke; “he can make thee be a man, and make me feel like a girl.”
As Duroc attached the cross to the buttonhole of the vivandière's frock, she sat pale as death, totally overcome by her sensations of pride, and unable to say more than “Oh, Sire!” which she repeated three or four times at intervals.
Again the procession moved on; other wagons followed with their brave fellows; but all the interest of the scene was now, for me at least, wrapped up in that one incident, and I took but little notice of the rest.
For full two hours the cortege continued to roll on,—wagon after wagon, filled with the shattered remnants of an army. Yet such was the indomitable spirit of the people, such the heartfelt passion for glory, all deemed that procession the proudest triumph of their arms. Nor was this feeling confined to the spectators; the wounded themselves leaned eagerly over the sides of the charrettes to gaze into the crowds on either side, seeking some old familiar face, and looking through all their sufferings proudly on the dense mob beneath them. Some tried to cheer, and waved their powerless hands; but others, faint and heart-sick, turned their glazed eyes towards the “Invalides,” whose lofty dome appeared above the trees, as though to say, that was now their resting-place,—the only one before the grave.
He who witnessed that day could have little doubt about the guiding spirit of the French nation; nor could he distrust their willingness to sacrifice anything—nay, all—to national glory. Suffering and misery, wounds, ghastly and dreadful, were on every side; and yet not one word of pity, not a look of compassion was there. These men were, in their eyes, far too highly placed for sympathy; theirs was that path to which all aspired, and their trophies were their own worn frames and mangled bodies. And then how they brightened up as the Emperor would draw near! how even the faintest would strive to catch his eye and gaze with parted lips on him as he spoke, as though drinking in his very words,—the balm to their bruised hearts,—and the faint cry of “l'Empereur! l'Empereur!” passed like a murmur along the line.