The early twilight of winter falls over Paris, and we see the shadows deepen round Napoleon's tomb. We fancy we see among them human figures fighting against hunger, cold, and weariness. The time of misfortune is come. The great army is retreating, the roads are lined with corpses and fragments. The cannon are left in the snow. The soldiers fall in regiments like a ripe crop. Packs of wolves follow in their tracks: they are contented with the dead, but the Cossack squadrons cut down the living. At the bridge over the Beresina, a tributary of the Dnieper, 30,000 men are drowned and perish. All discipline is relaxed. The soldiers throw away their guns and knapsacks. Clothed in furs and with a birchen staff in his hand, the defeated emperor marches like a simple soldier in the front. Thanks to the severe climate of their country and its great extent, and thanks also to their own cautious conduct of the war, the Russians practically annihilated Napoleon's army.
The darkness deepens. At Leipzig Russians, Austrians, Prussians, and Swedes oppose Napoleon. There his proud empire falls to pieces, even Paris is captured, and he loses his crown. He is carried a prisoner down the Rhone valley through Lyons, and shipped off to the island of Elba.
Once more he fills the world with tumult. With a brig and seven small vessels he sails back to the coast of France. He has a force of only 1100 men, but in his hands it is sufficient to reconquer France. He marches over the western offshoots of the Alps. At Grenoble his force has increased to 7000 men. In Lyons he is saluted as Emperor, and Paris opens its gates. He is ready to stake everything on a single throw. In Belgium is to be the decisive battle. Hostile armies gather round the frontiers of France, for Europe is tired of continual war. At Waterloo Napoleon fights his last battle, and his fate is sealed for ever.
He leaves Paris for the last time. At the port of Rochefort, between the mouths of the Loire and the Garonne, he goes on board an English frigate. After seventy days' sail he is landed on the small basaltic island of St. Helena in the southern Atlantic, where he is doomed to pass the last six years of his eventful life. Here also his grave is digged under the willows in the valley.
Nineteen years after Napoleon's death the simple grave under the willows was uncovered, the coffins of wood, lead, and sheet-iron were opened in the presence of several who had shared his long imprisonment, the remains were taken on board a French frigate amid the roar of guns and flags waving half-mast high, the coffin was landed at Cherbourg in Normandy, and the conqueror of Europe once more made his entry into Paris with military pomp and ceremony, in which all France took part. Drawn by sixteen horses in funereal trappings and followed by veterans of Napoleon's campaigns, the hearse, adorned with imperial splendour, was escorted by soldiers under the triumphal arch of the Place de l'Étoile and through the Champs Élysées to the Hôtel des Invalides, where the coffin was deposited in the Finnish sarcophagus. Thus was fulfilled the last wish of the conqueror of the world: "I desire that my remains may rest on the banks of the Seine."
Paris to Rome
The stranger leaves Paris with regret, and is consoled only by the thought that he is on his way to sunny Italy. The train carries him eastwards, and he looks through the window at the hills and plains of Champagne, the home of sparkling wine. Around him spread tilled fields, villages, and farmhouses. Where the soil is not suitable for vines, wheat, or beet, it provides pasture for large flocks. Men are seen at work everywhere, and the traveller realises that France is so prosperous because all its small proprietors, peasants, and townspeople are so industrious and so thrifty. Now the frontier is reached. The great fortress of Belfort is the last French town passed, and a little later we are in Alsace.
Another frontier is crossed, that between Germany and Switzerland, and the train halts at the fine town of Bâle, traversed by the mighty Rhine. Coming from the Lake of Constance, the clear waters of the river glide under the bridges of Bâle, and turn at right angles northwards between the Vosges and the Black Forest.
From Bâle we go on south-westwards to Geneva. Along a narrow valley the railway follows the river Birs, which falls into the Rhine, and winds in curves along the mountain flanks, sometimes high above the foot of the valley, and sometimes by the river's bank. It is towards the end of January, and snow has been falling for several days on end. All the country is quite white, and the small villages in the valley are almost hidden.
Now we come to three lakes in a row, the Lake of Bienne, the Lake of Neuchâtel, and the great Lake of Geneva, which we reach at the town of Lausanne. Here the snow has ceased to fall, and the beautiful Alps of Savoy are visible to the south. The sun is hidden behind clouds, but its rays are reflected by the clear mirror of the lake. This view is one of the finest in the world, and our eyes are glued to the carriage window as the train follows the shore of Geneva.