The gaming allusion of the first stanza reminds us of the picture of a certain devotee at the roulette table at Hombourg, who kept his seat—tranquil, immovable, vigilant,—the Napoleon of roulette; in whose victorious progress Marengos and Austerlitzes succeeded each other, as if Moscow and the Beresina were phantoms—as if to-morrow would never come. To-morrow; ay, that dread to-morrow that comes to all: the fateful Demain of Victor:
“Demain est la sapin du trône,
Aujourd’hui c’en est le velours.”
Yes, to-morrow is the coarse deal, with its ten sacks, that forms the framework of the throne, as to-day is its velvet and gilding.
“Demain c’est le coursier qui s’abat plein d’écume;
Demain, O conquérant, c’est Moscou qui s’allume
La nuit comme un flambeau:
C’est not’ vieille garde qui jonche au lointain la plaine,
Demain c’est Waterloo! Demain c’est Ste. Helène!
Demain c’est le tombeau!”