The last time I was at Waterloo, many years ago, the guide who accompanied me told me, that, a short time before, a man, whose appearance was that of a substantial farmer, and who was followed by an attendant, called on him for his services.  The guide went his usual round, making his often-repeated remarks and commenting severely on Grouchy.  The stranger examined the ground attentively, and only occasionally replied, saying, “Grouchy received no orders.”  At last, the servant fell back, detaining the guide, and, in a low tone, said to him, “Speak no more about Marshal Grouchy, for that is he.”  The man told me, that, after that, he abstained from saying anything offensive; but that he watched carefully the soldier’s agitation, as the various positions of the battle became apparent to him.  He, doubtless, saw how little would have turned the current of the fight, and knew that the means of doing it had been in his own hands.  The guide seemed much impressed with the deep feeling of the Marshal, and said to me, “I will never speak ill of him again.”

The battle of Waterloo is often mentioned as the sole cause of Napoleon’s downfall; and it is said, that, had he gained that day, he would have secured his throne.  It seems to be forgotten that a complete victory would have left him with weakened forces, and that he had already exhausted the resources of France in his preparations for this one campaign; that the masses of Austria and Russia were advancing in hot haste, which, with the rallied remains of Prussia, and the indomitable perseverance and uncompromising hostility of England, quickened by a reverse of her arms, would have presented an array against which he could have had no chance of success.  The hour of utter ruin would only have been procrastinated, involving still greater waste of life, and augmenting the desolation which for so many years had been the fate of Europe.

Yes, Napoleon was in Paris,—­a general without soldiers, and a sovereign without subjects.  The prestige of his name was gone; and had the Chamber of Deputies invested him with the Dictatorship, as was suggested, it would have been “a barren sceptre in his gripe,” and the utmost stretch of power could not have collected materials to meet the impending invasion.  At no period did he show such irresolution as at this time.  He tendered his abdication, and it was accepted.  He offered his services as a soldier, and they were declined.  He had ceased, for the moment, to be anything to France.  Yet he lingered for days about the capital, the inhabitants of which were too intent in gazing at the storm, ready to burst upon them, to be mindful of his existence.  There was, however, one exception.  The boys were still faithful to him, and were more interested in his position than in that of the enemy at their gates.