A STUDENT'S EXPERIENCE IN THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR
We rememberers lie under certain suspicion. "Uncle Mose," said an
inquirer, his intonation betraying scepticism, "they say you remember
General Washington." "Yaas, Boss," replied Uncle Mose, "I used to
'member Gen'l Washington, but sence I jined de church I done forgot."
Not having joined Uncle Mose's church, my memory has not experienced
the ecclesiastical discouragement that befell him. I humbly trust,
however, it needs no chastening, and aver that I do not go for my
facts to my imagination. I am now in foreign parts dealing with
personages of especial dignity and splendour and must establish my
memory firmly in the reader's confidence.
I was a student in Germany in 1870. In the spring at Berlin, passing
by the not very conspicuous royal palace on Unter den Linden, one day
I studied the front with some interest. The two sentinels stood in the
door saluting with clock-work precision the officers who frequently
passed. A watchful policeman was on the corner, but there was little
other sign that an important personage was within the walls. With some
shock I suddenly caught sight, in a window close at hand, of a tall,
robust figure with a rugged but not ungenial face surmounted by
grizzled hair, in uniform with decorations hanging upon the broad
breast, who, as I glanced up, saluted me with an unlooked-for nod. I
knew at once it was the King of Prussia, who before the year was ended
was to be crowned as Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse at Versailles. I was
thoroughly scared, as I did not know that it was the habit of the King
to stand in the window and good-naturedly greet the passer-by.
That was my first sight of a real king. But there is another figure
which I contemplate with more interest. The 31st of May of 1870 was a
day sent from heaven, brilliant sunshine after a period of cloud; the
spring lording it in the air, the trees and grass in their freshest
luxuriance. I was at Potsdam that day; in the wide-stretching gardens
that surround the New Palace. As I walked, I came to a cord drawn
across the path, indicating that visitors were to go no farther. Close
by stood a tall young grenadier on duty as a sentinel, but willing to
chat. Looking beyond the cord into the reserved space I presently saw
coming up from a secluded path, a low carriage drawn by a pony led by
a groom in which was seated a lady dressed in white. She was not of
distinguished appearance but my grenadier told me that it was the
Crown Princess of Prussia, the daughter of the Queen of England.
From the screen of the bush I watched her with natural interest. The
carriage paused and a group of little boys and girls came running
out from the thicket attended by a governess or two and a tutor. The
little girls had their hands full of flowers, which, running forward,
they threw into the carriage. The boys, too, ran up with pretty
demonstrations, and a straight little fellow of ten years or so
hurried to the groom and began to pat the pony's nose. These, I
learned, were the princes and princesses of the royal family. The
little fellow patting the pony's nose was the eldest and destined to
emerge into history as Kaiser Wilhelm the Second.
And now, from a door of the palace, not far distant, came striding
a notable figure, tall and stalwart, in the undress uniform of a
Prussian General. Under his fatigue cap the blond hair was abundant; a
wave of brown beard swept flown upon his breast. The face was full of
intelligence and authority, but at that moment most kindly as his blue
eyes sought the group that stood in the foreground. It was the Crown
Prince of Prussia, destined at length to be the Emperor Friedrich.
The carriage passed on, the Crown Prince walking, with his hand on the
side, while the Princess held her parasol over his head, laughing at
the idea evidently, that so sturdy a soldier needed that kind of a
screen.
The Crown Prince Friedrich was unpopular in those days as too
domestic, standing too much withdrawn from the bustling world, but
there was no failure when the stress came. Only a few weeks passed
before the stout soldier, whom I had seen throwing lilies and
sheltered from the sun by his wife's parasol, was at the head of
a great army corps, crushing the power of France at Worth and
Weissembourg; but the report was that he had said, "I do not like war,
and if I am ever King I shall never make war."
A few weeks after the Potsdam incident I was in the city of Vienna.
One morning, like thunder out of a clear sky, news came of the
outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war. I read the paper, but, not
feeling that the news need interfere with my sight-seeing, went to the
Hofbourg, the old palace, in the heart of the city, of the Imperial
family of Austria. The building is extensive; the streets of the city
at that time running under it here and there in tunnels. I visited
the _Schatz_ Kammer, the treasure-room, and saw men go almost
demented at the spectacle of the gold and jewels heaped up in the
cases. The sight of the splendour, the heaped-up jewels, the
batons, the faded, and sometimes bloody, garments, the trinkets and
decorations, associated with towering personalities of the past,
attuned my spirit for some adventure above the commonplace. As I came
down into the street, narrow and overhung by the confining arch, a
soldier passed me on the run into an open space just beyond, where
instantly a battalion hurried out to stand at present. Then in the
distance I heard galloping of horses and an open carriage rapidly
approached, in which were seated four figures, protected from the
light rain by grey overcoats, wearing the chapeaux which have come
down from Napoleonic times. The carriage passed so near that I was
obliged to press back against the wall to save my feet from the
wheels, and a figure on the back seat, who, for the moment, was within
arm's reach, I recognised as Francis Joseph.
He was then a man in his best years, a strong, sensible if not
impressive face, and a well-knit frame. He had driven in from
Schönbrunn to attend a council meeting, and the day for him was no
doubt a most critical one. War had come. It was only four years after
Königgrätz. His old enemy, Prussia, was about to hurl herself, with
who could tell what allies, against France. What stand should Austria
take? If the Kaiser was agitated, his face did not show it; it was
significant of quiet, cool poise. Excitement was repressed, while good
sense weighed and determined. Few sovereigns have been obliged to face
so often situations of the utmost difficulty. I can believe that with
similar imperturbability Francis Joseph has confronted the series of
perplexities which make up the tangled story of his long career, and
I count it good fortune that I witnessed, in a moment of supreme
embarrassment, the balance and resolution with which the good ruler
went to his task. Austria, as the world knows, decided that day to be
neutral in the Franco-Prussian quarrel.
The disorder in the land made me feel that I must get nearer to my
base, so I hurriedly left Vienna for Munich, which I found seething
with agitation, for, like Austria, Bavaria had only a few years before
been Prussia's enemy, and so far as the populace was concerned all
was in doubt as to what course would now be taken. The rumour was that
McMahon had crossed the Rhine at Strassburg with 150,000 men, and was
marching to interpose between Northern and Southern Germany.
At the Ober-Pollinger I heard in the inn, amid the stormy discussion
of the crisis, something quite out of harmony with the spirit of the
hour. The first performance was to be given in the Royal Opera House
of a work of Richard Wagner, the _Rheingold_. Wagner in those
days had not attained his great fame, and, to a man like me, who had
no especial interest in music, was a name almost unknown, but I went
with the crowd, thinking to help out a dreary evening rather than to
enjoy a masterpiece. The house was crowded. In the centre before the
stage an ample space was occupied by the royal box, richly carved and
draped. Presently the King entered, a slender, graceful figure in a
dress suit, his dark rather melancholy face looking handsome in the
gorgeous setting of the theatre. The crowded audience rose to their
feet in a tumult of enthusiasm. The air resounded with "Hoch! Hoch!"
the German cheer, and handkerchiefs waved like a snow-storm. The
King bowed right and left in acknowledgment of the plaudits, and
the performance of the evening was kept long in waiting. The line of
Bavarian kings has perhaps little title to our respect. The Ludwig
of fifty years ago was a voluptuary, vacillating, like another Louis
Quinze, between debauchery and a weak pietism. He probably merited the
cuts of the relentless scourge of Heine than which no instrument of
chastisement was ever more unsparing, and which in his case was put
to its most merciless use; but he loved art and lavished his revenues
upon pictures, statues, and churches, which the world admires,
imparting a benefit, though his subjects groaned. His successor,
whom I saw, was a man morbid and without force, who early came to a
sorrowful end. His redeeming quality was a fine aesthetic taste,
which he had no doubt through heredity, together with a sad burden of
disease. The world remembers kindly that he was a prodigal patron of
art.
I went to Heidelberg in February, 1870, bent upon a quiet year of
study in Germany and France. Fate had a different programme for me. My
plans were badly interfered with but to see Europe in such a turmoil
was an experience well worth having. Heidelberg that spring was very
peaceful. The ice in the Neckar on which skaters were disporting on
my arrival passed out in due course of time to the Rhine, the foliage
broke forth in glory on the noble hills and the nightingales came back
to sing in the ivy about the storied ruins. There was no suggestion in
the air of cannon thunder. At Berlin, however, as I have described, I
found things wearing a warlike air. I was eager to perfect my German
and sought chances to talk with all whom I met, and often had pleasant
converse with the young soldiers who when off duty numerously flocked
to the gardens and street corners. I recall in particular three young
soldiers whose subsequent fate I should like to know. The first was
a handsome young grenadier who had talked with me affably as we stood
together screened by the bush in the garden of the New Palace at
Potsdam watching the family of the Crown Prince, that beautiful
forenoon in May.... When I told him I had myself _mitgemacht_ the
Civil War in America he at once accorded me respect as a veteran.
I think he was a _Freiwilliger_, one of the class, who, having
reached a high status in the Gymnasium, enjoyed the privilege of a
shorter term of service. He had the bearing of a cultivated gentleman
and there was strength in his firm young face which I have no doubt
made him a good soldier in the time of stress. We shook hands at last
in the friendliest way and I saw him no more. A few days later the
train in which I was riding stopped at Erfurt and among the groups
at the station was one that interested me much. In the centre stood
a sturdy young Uhlan gaudy in full dress which I fancied he had only
lately assumed, his stature was increased by his lofty horse-hair
plume and he wore his corselet over a uniform in which there was many
a dye. A bevy of pretty girls thronged around him, freshly beautiful
after the German type, blond and blue-eyed in attractive summer
draperies, and I speculated pleasantly as to which among them were
sisters and which sweethearts. As the train departed the young Uhlan
climbed into my compartment and we sat vis-à-vis as we rode on through
the country. He was a frank ingenuous boy of twenty with eyes that
danced with life, and a mobile play of features. My claim that I had
seen service in the tented field again served me in good stead as an
introduction; it was a passport to his confidence and I had a pleasant
hour or two with him until he left me at length at his rendezvous.
Best of all I remember a third encounter. When I stepped from my car
at Weimar I asked a direction from a young grenadier off duty who
stood at hand on the platform. He too possessed the usual Teutonic
vigour and strength. A conversation sprang up in which I explained
that I was an American and desired to see as well as I could in a
few hours the interesting things in that little city so quiet and
renowned. I had found out by this time that my small veteranship was
a good asset and paraded it for all it was worth and as usual it told.
He was off duty for a few hours and had never visited the shrines of
Weimar, and if I had no objection he would like to go with me on
my tour of inspection, so together we walked through those shadowed
streets, which seemed to be haunted even in that bright sunshine by
the ghosts of the great men who have walked in them. We saw the homes
of Goethe and Schiller, the noble statues of the _Dichter-Paar_,
and the old theatre behind it in which were first performed the
masterpieces of the German drama. We went together to the cemetery
and descending into the crypt of the mausoleum stood by the coffins
of Goethe and Schiller, the men most illustrious in German letters.
It was a memorable day of my life, the outward conditions perfect, the
June sunshine, the wealth of lovely foliage, the bird songs, and right
at hand the homes and haunts of the inspired singers whom I especially
reverenced. I was most fortunate in my companionship, the bearing of
the youth was marked by no flippancy, he venerated as I did the lofty
spirits into whose retreats we had penetrated. He was familiar with
their masterpieces and we felt for them a like appreciation. His
soldierly garb accorded perhaps ill with the peaceful suggestions of
the hour and place, but in his mind plainly the sentiment lay deep, a
warm recognition of what gave his country its best title to greatness.
We took thought too of Wieland and looked in silence at the fine
statue of Herder standing before the church in which he long
ministered; but the supreme personages for us were Goethe and
Schiller. What became of my sympathetic young soldier I have never
known. If he escaped from Mars-la-Tour and Gravelotte and Sedan I am
sure that he must have matured into a high-souled man.
I had an opportunity, during a visit to Strassburg in the spring, to
see the soldiery of France. At the time the prestige of the Second
Empire was at its height, Magenta and Solferino were considerable
battles and the French had won them. Turcos and Zouaves had long
passed in the world as soldiers of the best type and in our Civil War
we had copied zealously their fantastic apparel and drill. When the
Franco-Prussian War broke out the world felt that Germany had the
hardest of nuts to crack and in many a mind the forecast was that
France would be the victor, but even to my limited judgment the
shortcomings of the French troops were plain. They were inferior in
physique, lacking in trimness and even in cleanliness, and imperfectly
disciplined. I wondered if the rather slovenly ill-trained battalions
of small pale men could stand up against the prompt rigid alignment of
the broad-shouldered six-footers I had seen manoeuvring on the other
side of the Rhine.
I had received word in the spring from my bankers in Paris that my
letter of credit was not in regular shape and they advised me to draw
at Berlin a sum of money sufficient for present needs and transmit the
letter to them, promising to adjust the matter in such a way that both
they and I would be relieved of some inconvenience. In June I drew
a small sum and sent my letter to Paris in accordance with their
instructions, the agreement being that I was to call a month or so
later on the correspondents at Munich of the Paris bankers and receive
from them the corrected letter. I then travelled as far as Vienna
where all unforeseen the news startled me of the outbreak of the war.
I hurried to Munich, my little store of money being by that time much
depleted. At the banking house I learned to my consternation that they
had heard nothing of me or my letter of credit. Still worse, there was
no prospect of hearing, communication with Paris was completely broken
off. The rumour was that McMahon had crossed the Rhine at Strassburg
with one hundred and fifty thousand men on the march to interpose
between Southern and Northern Germany. The house had not heard from
Paris and could not expect to hear. Acting on their advice I sent a
distressful telegram roundabout through Switzerland to Paris. There
was a possibility that such a message might go through; otherwise
there was no hope. I then spent at Munich one of the most anxious
weeks of my life. I was nearer the pavement than I have ever been
before or since. There was a charming German family at the inn at
which I stopped, gentle, courteous people, father, mother, and a
little blue-eyed daughter. When the little girl found I was from
America I can now see her innocent wide-open eyes as she asked me if I
had ever seen an Indian. I could tell her some good stories of Indians
for in boyhood I had lived near a reservation of Senecas, at that time
to a large extent, in their primitive state. When I ventured one
day to tell the polite father of my present embarrassment I at once
noticed a sudden cooling off. The little girl no longer came to talk
with me and the family held aloof. Plainly I had become an object of
suspicion, I was now penniless, my story might be true or perhaps I
was paving the way for asking a loan. How could he tell that I was
not a dead-beat? I was really in a strait. The Americans had very
generally left the city in consequence of the turmoil. I could hear
of no one excepting our Consul who was still at his post. Calling upon
him and telling my story, I found him cool to the point of rudeness. I
had excellent letters from Bancroft and others which I showed him and
which ought to have secured me a respectful hearing. I asked only for
sympathy and counsel but I received neither, and could not have been
treated worse if I had been a proved swindler. The Consul afterwards
wrote a book in which he told of experiences with inconvenient
countrymen who had recourse to him in their straits, and possibly I
myself may have figured as one of his examples. My feeling is that
he was a man not fit for his place, for in the circumstances he might
certainly have shown some kindness. My few pieces of silver jingled
drearily in my pocket; perhaps my best course would be to enlist in
the German army. I thought the cause a just one for the atmosphere
had made me a good German, and as a soldier I might at least earn my
bread. To my joy, however, in one of my daily visits to the banking
house the courteous young partner told me that a telegram had come in
some roundabout way from Paris and they were prepared to pay me the
full amount on my letter of credit. I clutched the money, two pretty
cylinders of gold coin done up in white paper, which I sewed securely
into the waist-band of my trousers and felt an instant strengthening
of nerve and self-respect.
I departed then for Switzerland where I enjoyed a delightful
fortnight. The rebound from my depression imparted a fine
_morale_. Switzerland was practically deserted, no French or
Germans were there for they had enough to do with the war; the English
for the most part stayed at home, for Europe could only be crossed
with difficulty, and the crowd from America too was deterred by the
danger. Instead of the throngs at the great points of interest, the
visitors counted by twos and threes. The guides and landlords were
obsequious. We few strangers had the Alps to ourselves and they were
as lavish of their splendours to the handful as to the multitude. At
Geneva at last I found letters from home which caused me anxiety; I
was referred for later news to letters which were to be sent to Paris;
so there was nothing for it but for me to cross France, though by that
time France had become a camp. Fortunately I had met in Switzerland
an American friend who was proficient in French as I was not and
who likewise found it necessary to go to Paris, and we two started
together. After crossing the frontier we found no regular trains;
those that ran were taken up for the most part by the multitudes of
conscripts hurrying into armies that were undergoing disaster in
the neighbourhood of Metz. The case of two American strangers was a
precarious one involved in such a mass, with food even very uncertain
and the likelihood of being side-tracked at any station, but we
were both strong and light-hearted and I felt at my waist-band the
comfortable contact of my bright yellow Napoleons which would pull
us through. Constantly we beheld scenes of the greatest interest. The
August landscape smiled its best about us, we passed Dijon and many
another old storied city famous in former wars, and now again
humming with the military life with which they had been so many times
familiar. The _Mobiles_ came thronging to every depot from
the vineyards and fields and the remoter villages. As yet they were
usually in picturesque peasant attire, young farmers in blouses or
with _bretelles_ crossing in odd fashion the queer shirts they
wore. Careless happy-go-lucky boys chattering in the excitement of
the new life which they were entering, only half-informed as to the
catastrophes which were taking place, but the mothers and sisters,
plain country women in short skirts, quaint bodices and caps, looked
upon their departure with anxious faces. I was familiar enough with
such scenes in our own Civil War; thousands of those boys were never
to return.
Reaching Paris we found an atmosphere of depression. A week or two
before the streets had resounded with the _Marseillaise_ and
echoed with the fierce cry, "A Berlin! A Berlin!" That confidence had
all passed, I heard the _Marseillaise_ sung only once, and
that in disheartened perfunctory fashion, perhaps by order of the
authorities in a futile attempt to stimulate courage that was waning.
Rage and mortification over the fast-accumulating German successes
possessed the hearts of men. In the squares companies of civilians
were industriously drilling, often in the public places men wearing
hospital badges extended salvers to the passers-by asking for
contributions, "Pour les blessés, monsieur, pour les blessés!" Now and
then well-disciplined divisions crossed the Place de la Concorde,
the regiments stacking arms for a brief halt. I studied them close at
hand; these at least looked as might have looked the soldiers of the
First Empire, strong and resolute, with an evident capacity for taking
care of themselves even in the small matter of cooking their soup, and
providing for their needs there on the asphalt. Their officers were
soldierly figures on horseback, dressed for rough work, and the
gaitered legs, with the stout shoes below dusty already from long
marching, were plainly capable of much more. There was a pathos about
it all, however, a marked absence of _élan_ and enthusiasm, the
faces under the _képis_ were firm and strong enough but they had
little hope. Nothing so paralyses a soldier as want of confidence in
the leadership and these poor fellows had lost that. The regiments
passed on in turn, the sunlight glittering on their arms. Through the
vista of the boulevard the eagles of the Second Empire rose above,
the grave colonels were conspicuous at the head, and the drum-beats,
choked by the towering buildings, sounded a melancholy muffled march
that was befitting. It was the scene pictured by Détaille in _Le
Régiment quì Passe_. Could he have been with us on the curbstone
making his studies? It was indeed for them a funeral march, for they
were on they way to Sedan. The Prussians, it was said, were within
four days' march of the city, and the barrier at Metz had been
completely broken down.
In most minds Paris is associated with gayety, my Paris, on the other
hand, is a solemn spot darkened by an impending shadow of calamity.
The theatres were closed. No one was admitted to the Invalides, so
that I could not see the tomb of Napoleon. The Madeleine was open for
service, but deep silence prevailed. In the great spaces of the temple
the robed priests bowed before the altar and noiseless groups of
worshippers knelt on the pavement. It was a time for earnest prayers.
The Louvre was still open and I was fortunate enough to see the Venus
of Milo, though a day or two after I believe it was taken from its
pedestal and carefully concealed. The expectation was of something
dreadful and still the city did not take in the sorrow which lay
before it. "Do you think the Prussians will bombard Paris?" I heard
a man exclaim, his voice and manner indicating that such a thing was
incredible, but the Prussian cannon were close at hand. For our part,
my companion and I thought we were in no especial danger. We quartered
ourselves comfortably at a pension, walked freely about the streets,
and saw what could be seen with the usual zest of healthy young
travellers. The little steamboats were still plying on the Seine and
we took one at last for the trip that opens to one so much that is
beautiful and interesting in architecture and history. It was a lovely
afternoon even for summer and we passed in and out under the superb
arches of the bridges, beholding the noble apse of Notre Dame with the
twin towers rising beyond, structures associated with grim events
of the Revolution, the masonry of the quays and the master work of
Haussmann who was then putting a new face upon the old city. Now all
was bright and no thought of danger entered our minds as we revelled
in the pleasures of such an excursion. At length as we stood on the
deck we became aware that we were undergoing careful scrutiny
from a considerable group who for the most part made up our
fellow-passengers. We had had no thought of ourselves as especially
marked. My clothes, however, had been made in Germany and had
peculiarities no doubt which indicated as much. I was fairly well
grounded in French but had no practice in speaking. In trying to talk
French, my tongue in spite of me ran into German, which I had been
speaking constantly for six months. This was particularly the case if
I was at all embarrassed; my face and figure, moreover, were plainly
Teutonic and not Latin. The French ascribed their disasters largely to
the fact that German spies were everywhere prying into the conditions,
and reporting every assailable point and element of weakness. This
belief was well grounded; the Germans probably knew France better than
the French themselves and skilfully adapted their attacks to the lacks
and negligences which the swarming spies laid bare. The group, of
whose scrutiny we had become aware, was made up of _ouvriers_ and
_ouvrières_, the men in the invariable blouse, with dark matted
hair and black eyes, sometimes with a ratlike keenness of glance as
they surveyed us. The women were roughly dressed, sometimes in sabots,
with heads bare or surmounted by conical caps. They belonged to the
proletariat, the class out of which had come in the Reign of Terror
the sans-culottes of evil memory and the _tricoteuses_ who had
sat knitting about the _guillotine_, the class which, within
a few months, was again to set the world aghast as the mob of _La
Commune_. As we stood disconcerted by their intent gaze, they put
their heads together and talked in low and rapid tones; then their
spokesman approached us, a man of polite bearing but ominously stern.
He was not a clumsy fellow, but darkly forceful and direct, a man
capable of a quick, desperate deed. At the moment there was the grim
tiger in their eyes and from the soft paw the swift protrusion of the
cruel claw. One thought of the wild revolutionary song, "Ça ça, ça
ira, les aristocrats à la lanterne!" They were the children of the mob
that had sung that song. With a bow, the spokesman said: "Messieurs,
we think you are Germans and we wish to know if we are right." We
protested that we were Americans, but the spokesman said he was
unconvinced, and as he pressed for further evidence I gave way to my
companion whose readier French could deal better with the situation.
He demanded to see our passports with which fortunately we were both
provided; I had not thought of a passport as a necessity, and almost
by chance had procured one the week before from our Minister
in Switzerland, a careful description, vouching for my American
citizenship, signed and sealed by the United States official.
This perhaps saved my life. We surrendered our passports to our
interrogator; he carried them back to the throng behind him who were
now glowering angrily at us, as they chattered among themselves.
Half-amused and half-alarmed, we waited while the documents were
passed from hand to hand, carefully conned and inspected. We could not
believe that we were in danger, here in the bright day in beautiful
Paris, with the sacred towers of Notre Dame soaring close at hand.
There were no _gendarmes_ on the boat or on the quays, but how
could it he that we needed protection? After a quarter of an hour's
suspense, during which there had been a voluble counselling among
the group, the spokesman came forth again with our passports in hand
carefully folded, these he returned to us, touching his hat with a
stiff and formal bow. "We have persuaded ourselves," said he, "that
you are what you claim to be, Americans, and it is fortunate for you
that it is so, for we had intended to throw you into the Seine as
Prussian spies." Here was a surprise indeed! The group then dispersed
about the boat apparently satisfied. Still rather amused than alarmed
we pocketed our passports. Under the arch of one of the stately
bridges close by, the Seine flowed in heavy shadows on its way, and
we looked down upon the dark waters. Throbbing with life as we were,
could it be possible that we had just escaped a grave in its watery
embrace? Presently we landed light-hearted, and were again in the
streets, but in days that followed immediately my heart was often in
my throat, as I read in the papers of the corpses of men taken out of
the river who undoubtedly had been thrown in under suspicion of being
German spies. After a sojourn of not quite a week in Paris we made up
our minds it was no place for us. My plans for study were quite broken
up, it was scarcely possible to get back to Germany and nothing could
be done in France. I had letters which in a time of peace would have
opened the way for me to many a pleasant circle. My intention had been
to study for some time in France, but under the circumstances it would
be a comfortable thing to have the Atlantic rolling between me
and Europe, and therefore, I prepared to depart for home. At the
_pension_, on the day I had fixed for departure, while coming
down the staircase waxed and highly polished, I slipped and fell
heavily, so bruising my knee that I was nearly crippled. Fortunately
no bones were broken and with much pain I managed to hobble to the
official from whom I must obtain a pass to leave the city. I set out
for the North, on almost the last train that left the city, at the end
of August. The sights were gloomy, the towns which we passed seemed
associated with ancient bloodshed. We touched St. Quentin and crossed
the field of Malplaquet, and finally near Mons passed the Belgian
frontier. Marlborough and the names associated with former wars were
suggested to my thoughts by these historic spots. I was heartily
glad when at length in cheerful Brussels I was beyond danger. On the
fateful day when the Second Empire went down at Sedan, I was on the
field of Waterloo where half a century before the First Empire had
perished. The news of the morning made it plain that on that day the
great _débâcle_ was to culminate. We listened all day for cannon
thunder; under certain conditions of the atmosphere the sound of heavy
guns may reverberate as far perhaps, as from Sedan to Waterloo. That
day, however, there was no ominous grumble from the eastward, the sky
was cloudless, the flowers bloomed about the Château d'Hougomont, and
the birds twittered in peace at the point before La Haie-Sainte to
which the First Napoleon advanced in the evening and where for the
last time he heard the shout then so long familiar but forever after
unheard, "Vive l'Empereur!" Humiliation now after half a century had
overwhelmed in turn his unhappy successor.