CHAPTER XV.
THE FIFTH OF MAY, 1870.
It was the forty-ninth anniversary of the death of the eagle chained tothe rock--of the Prometheus who was not unbound--of Napoleon Bonaparteimprisoned at St. Helena. Captivity, despair, dropsy--these were thelast scenes in the great world-drama of the modern C?sar, the littlelieutenant of artillery, who sprang from the obscurity of his islet-homein the Mediterranean to the perilous eminence of the purple. This wasthe end of the spoiled child of victory.
On this day the veterans of his wars, 'the old of the old,' mustered atthe foot of his monument in the Place Vend?me, in the core of the busycity--the monument which typified him as the Conquering Hero, who wasthe ideal of French martial aspirations--the being after the nation'sheart. Proudly uprises in the middle of the square the tall pillar--animmense trophy covered with plates of bronze from the monster cruciblein which the captured cannon of the Austrians were melted down. Thestatue of the Imperial soldier is on the summit, laurel-crowned, garbedin regal mantle, the sceptre in one hand, the orb in the other. It wouldhave been better if it were sword or _b?ton_, instead of sceptre ororb--the chasseur's jacket of Marengo, instead of the regal mantle--thethree-cornered hat, instead of the garland of Roman triumph.
On this day the statue holds lev?e. Stooped veterans draw their olduniforms from the bottom of musty drawers, put on the plumed shakopierced with bullets, and the belts blackened with the powder of twentybattles, and march with tottering step to lay their memorial wreaths ofthe yellow-budded immortelles on the railings at the base.
'Tap! tap!' brattle the drum-sticks, plied by wrinkled fingers, andslowly comes in sight the slender company from the H?tel des Invalides,for some of these warriors have to hobble to the rendezvous on crutches.The sight is one to thrill and sadden, as these glorious relics of anera that is past file feebly by, in every variety of military dress thatrecalls the First Empire. There are about five-and-thirty of them--nomore. They halt and form into line in front of the entrance to themonument. The stalwart Municipal Guard on sentry presents arms; thewithered commander of the band advances and hangs his huge votivecirclet of flowers on a rail, the drummer makes his most vigorousattempt at a roulade, but there is the tremor of palsy in the sound; itis as the rattling of clay on a coffin-lid.
'_Vive l'Empereur!_' pipes the commander, and a faint cheer, a cheer asif from out the dimness of some distant vault, is the response from hiscompanions.
'Live the Man!' exclaims a stooped officer in cocked hat, brandishinghis stick as if it were a battle-blade. The stooped officer was CaptainChauvin. Having acquitted themselves of the duty of loyal love, theveterans broke up and dispersed, and our friend joined four bystanderson the pavement of the Rue Castiglione. They were M. and MadameO'Hoolohan, and M. and Madame O'Hara. They helped the aged warrior intoa close carriage--for he had grown sadly helpless of late--and drovequietly to his apartment near the Panth?on. He complained of a coldnessin the limbs. They sate him in an easy-chair before the stove, andwrapped him round with a warm cloak. He fell into a child-like slumber.This may have lasted an hour, and then, with a loud voice, a voice withthe vibration of young manhood, the veteran exclaimed:
'Farewell, my friends; they are beating the _appel_ on high.'
Lifting himself to his feet, by a superhuman effort, he stood straightas a lance for one moment, then flung out his arms and fell back dead.
There was a smile on his wan thin lips, and a hectic glow on his cheeks.He was happier than his comrades, who did not follow him till anotheryear had driven France to grief and Paris to delirium, had wiped out thelegend of the Empire as with a bloody sponge, and had torn down themonument to The Man.
THE END.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] In Paris the pawn-office is called 'my aunt,' as it is nick-named'my uncle' in England.
[2] 'To have the sack,' Paris slang for 'to be in funds.'
[3] To be out of money.
[4] The debtors' prison.
[5] The typical name of the Irishman, but spelt 'patte' (paw), is acommon word to dogs in France. This may explain why O'Hara fancied hehad hit on the animal's name.
[6] The smaller island close by the Morgue.
[7] The soldier must have meant catafalque. The French _militaire_ fromthe country is as fond of words of learned length as Goldsmith's villageschoolmaster.
[8] An anecdote of this nature is also told of Wilson, the eminentlandscape-painter. Doffing his coat one day for a game of tennis atRome, the picture of a splendid waterfall was discovered by way oflining to his waistcoat.
[9] This may strike such of my readers as never have enjoyed theconfidence of a canine friend, as drawing too largely on theircredulity; but I assure them, and 'I'm serious--so are all men uponpaper'--that I had a dog once, of the Irish retriever breed, whichcarried my hat after me for the length of two streets from where it hadbeen knocked off my head by some ruffian in an affray. I lost the samedog in Whitechapel, and it found its way home to St. John's Wood, acrossthe breadth of crowded London.
[10] Margaret the milliner.
[11] My son, hearken to thy aged grandsire. Thou wert born butyesterday, and I am nearing the gate of death. Fly, for ever fly, thisungrateful soil that refuses thee life. On yonder ship, where the crowdembark, thou goest to seek the United States, those climates in thebosom of plenty, where twenty united peoples live happily together. Fearnot the storms of the Atlantic; seek America; there thy lot will besweeter. At the dawn of day thou hast commenced thy work under the graysky in the bleak winters. I have seen thy strength and courage worn outtilling the fields of some duke and peer, whose steps have never troddenhis domain; far from Ireland he travels in state. Unfortunate, thedearth is near. Quit for ever this sojourn of misery. In cultivating thefertile savannahs, preserve thy faith if thou wouldst prosper: make thyadieus to our barren furrows; we must part. Take this silver, the fruitof long sacrifices, a crust of bread is enough for me; the sea is fair,the winds blow soft; go, my child--thy grandsire blesses thee!
[12] Greenhorn, Johnny Raw.
Mated from the Morgue: A Tale of the Second Empire Page 15