THE FIFTH OF MAY, 1870.
It was the forty-ninth anniversary of the death of the eagle chained to
the rock--of the Prometheus who was not unbound--of Napoleon Bonaparte
imprisoned at St. Helena. Captivity, despair, dropsy--these were the
last scenes in the great world-drama of the modern Cæsar, the little
lieutenant of artillery, who sprang from the obscurity of his islet-home
in the Mediterranean to the perilous eminence of the purple. This was
the end of the spoiled child of victory.
On this day the veterans of his wars, 'the old of the old,' mustered at
the foot of his monument in the Place Vendôme, in the core of the busy
city--the monument which typified him as the Conquering Hero, who was
the ideal of French martial aspirations--the being after the nation's
heart. Proudly uprises in the middle of the square the tall pillar--an
immense trophy covered with plates of bronze from the monster crucible
in which the captured cannon of the Austrians were melted down. The
statue of the Imperial soldier is on the summit, laurel-crowned, garbed
in regal mantle, the sceptre in one hand, the orb in the other. It would
have been better if it were sword or _bâton_, instead of sceptre or
orb--the chasseur's jacket of Marengo, instead of the regal mantle--the
three-cornered hat, instead of the garland of Roman triumph.
On this day the statue holds levée. Stooped veterans draw their old
uniforms from the bottom of musty drawers, put on the plumed shako
pierced with bullets, and the belts blackened with the powder of twenty
battles, and march with tottering step to lay their memorial wreaths of
the yellow-budded immortelles on the railings at the base.
'Tap! tap!' brattle the drum-sticks, plied by wrinkled fingers, and
slowly comes in sight the slender company from the Hôtel 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 an
era that is past file feebly by, in every variety of military dress that
recalls the First Empire. There are about five-and-thirty of them--no
more. They halt and form into line in front of the entrance to the
monument. The stalwart Municipal Guard on sentry presents arms; the
withered commander of the band advances and hangs his huge votive
circlet of flowers on a rail, the drummer makes his most vigorous
attempt at a roulade, but there is the tremor of palsy in the sound; it
is as the rattling of clay on a coffin-lid.
'_Vive l'Empereur!_' pipes the commander, and a faint cheer, a cheer as
if from out the dimness of some distant vault, is the response from his
companions.
'Live the Man!' exclaims a stooped officer in cocked hat, brandishing
his stick as if it were a battle-blade. The stooped officer was Captain
Chauvin. Having acquitted themselves of the duty of loyal love, the
veterans broke up and dispersed, and our friend joined four bystanders
on the pavement of the Rue Castiglione. They were M. and Madame
O'Hoolohan, and M. and Madame O'Hara. They helped the aged warrior into
a close carriage--for he had grown sadly helpless of late--and drove
quietly to his apartment near the Panthéon. He complained of a coldness
in the limbs. They sate him in an easy-chair before the stove, and
wrapped 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 with
the 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 straight
as 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 another
year had driven France to grief and Paris to delirium, had wiped out the
legend of the Empire as with a bloody sponge, and had torn down the
monument 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 a
common word to dogs in France. This may explain why O'Hara fancied he
had hit on the animal's name.
[6] The smaller island close by the Morgue.
[7] The soldier must have meant catafalque. The French _militaire_ from
the country is as fond of words of learned length as Goldsmith's village
schoolmaster.
[8] An anecdote of this nature is also told of Wilson, the eminent
landscape-painter. Doffing his coat one day for a game of tennis at
Rome, the picture of a splendid waterfall was discovered by way of
lining to his waistcoat.
[9] This may strike such of my readers as never have enjoyed the
confidence of a canine friend, as drawing too largely on their
credulity; but I assure them, and 'I'm serious--so are all men upon
paper'--that I had a dog once, of the Irish retriever breed, which
carried my hat after me for the length of two streets from where it had
been knocked off my head by some ruffian in an affray. I lost the same
dog in Whitechapel, and it found its way home to St. John's Wood, across
the breadth of crowded London.
[10] Margaret the milliner.
[11] My son, hearken to thy aged grandsire. Thou wert born but
yesterday, and I am nearing the gate of death. Fly, for ever fly, this
ungrateful soil that refuses thee life. On yonder ship, where the crowd
embark, thou goest to seek the United States, those climates in the
bosom of plenty, where twenty united peoples live happily together. Fear
not the storms of the Atlantic; seek America; there thy lot will be
sweeter. At the dawn of day thou hast commenced thy work under the gray
sky in the bleak winters. I have seen thy strength and courage worn out
tilling the fields of some duke and peer, whose steps have never trodden
his domain; far from Ireland he travels in state. Unfortunate, the
dearth is near. Quit for ever this sojourn of misery. In cultivating the
fertile savannahs, preserve thy faith if thou wouldst prosper: make thy
adieus to our barren furrows; we must part. Take this silver, the fruit
of 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.
End of Project Gutenberg's Mated from the Morgue, by John Augustus O'Shea