"What fates, my comrades!"—A Review Day under the First Empire
(From the Painting by H. Bellange)]
[Click on the image to enlarge it.]
"My faith! but you were brave, you old soldiers," cried the youngster with enthusiasm. "But think of it, then! To Egypt!"
"Well, we took Egypt," resumed old Nonesuch. "We were Frenchmen. We had Napoleon! And after that we undertook another little campaign in Italy. Then we returned to France, our beautiful France, to install ourselves in the Tuileries. Eh!"—puff—puff,—"Light my pipe, Stephen!"
And Stephen again lighted the old veteran's pipe.
"Yes; in the Tuileries"—puff—puff. "We gave ourselves up to fêtes. Ah! there were grand times—each one finer than the other. One might call them fêtes indeed! Death of my life! Who was it said just now that the emperor was a man? Why, look you! his enemies—those villains of traitors—tried to kill him. They plotted against him. But, bah! they could not. He rode over infernal machines as if they were roses. They could not kill him. Those things are for men—for little kings. He was Napoleon!"
"And at last he was crowned emperor," suggested the youngster.
"Yes; on the second of December, in the year 1804," answered old Nonesuch. "And the Pope himself came from Rome to consecrate our emperor. Ah, then, what fêtes, my comrades! what fêtes and fêtes and fêtes! It rained kings on all sides."
"But there came an end of fêtes" said the scholar, who read in books and newspapers.
"Well, what would you have?—always feasting? Perhaps you think that our emperor once an emperor, would rest at home. Yes? Well, that would have been good for you and me; but he had still to undertake battles and victories,—battles and victories; they were the same thing! We were at Austerlitz; there I left this leg. At Jena; there I dropped this hand. Then came the peace, made upon the raft at Tilsit; then the war in Spain—a villanous war, and one I did not like at all. Napoleon was not there. Where he was not, the sun did not shine. Then we returned to Paris. The emperor married a grand princess. He had a son—a baby son—the King of Rome! Then, too, what fêtes! A fine child the King of Rome! I saw him often in his little goat-carriage at the Tuileries. I do not know what has become of him. They say he is dead; but I do not believe that, any more than I believe that my emperor is dead. Two deaths? Bah! old women's stories,—witch stories, good only to frighten children to sleep. When my emperor and his son come back, we shall be amazed that we ever believed them dead!"
"But he disappeared—the emperor disappeared—he vanished," persisted the scholar.