"It was I."
"It was you!" cried the Prince; "you!" Then, bursting into sobs: "Let me embrace you and thank you in his name!" and he pointed with his hand to the thin sheets on the table in which was to be recognized the proud, delicate writing of "Catinat of the Grande Armée," of "the Black Lion," as the old soldiers of the First Empire had called him to distinguish him from his brother in arms, Ney, "the Red Lion." Tears streamed down his face, so like that of his glorious ancestor, while he pressed Alfred to his breast, and both of them, the old man and the young, felt that exquisite emotion that floods our souls with melancholy and an almost supernatural serenity when we have paid a sacred debt to the dead.
FOOTNOTES:
[14] "Demi-hipnose," writes Paul Bourget
WHEN HE WAS A LITTLE BOY
BY HENRI LÉON ÉMILE LAVEDAN
Henri Lavedan stands for the bright side of Parisian life of to-day—for the witty dialogue and the delicate sentiment. He has created a language of his own, sound, racy, with all the abruptness and unexpected drollery of the boulevards.
He was born at Orléans in 1859, and began his literary career by contributing to the journals satiric pictures of the manners and customs of the Paris world. Those written between 1885 and 1892 form a series of chronicles, which he has gathered into several volumes. Most of his works, however, are written for the theatre. In 1899 he was elected a member of the Academy.
