“The Red Man went over to the Bourbons like the low scoundrel he is.  France is prostrate, the soldier counts for nothing, they rob him of his due, send him about his business, and fill his place with nobles who could not walk, they were so old, so that it made you sorry to see them.  They seize Napoleon by treachery, the English shut him up on a desert island in the ocean, on a rock ten thousand feet above the rest of the world.  That is the final end of it; there he has to stop till the Red Man gives him back his power again, for the happiness of France.  A lot of them say that he is dead!  Dead?  Oh! yes, very likely.  They do not know him, that is plain!  They go on telling that fib to deceive the people, and to keep things quiet for their tumble-down government.  Listen; this is the whole truth of the matter.  His friends have left him alone in the desert to fulfil a prophecy that was made about him, for I forgot to tell you that his name Napoleon really means the Lion of the Desert.  And that is gospel truth.  You will hear plenty of other things said about the Emperor, but they are all monstrous nonsense.  Because, look you, to no man of woman born would God have given the power to write his name in red, as he did, across the earth, where he will be remembered for ever! . . .  Long live ‘Napoleon, the father of the soldier, the father of the people!’”

“Long live General Eble!” cried the pontooner.

“How did you manage not to die in the gorge of the redoubts at Borodino?” asked a peasant woman.

“Do I know? we were a whole regiment when we went down into it, and only a hundred foot were left standing; only infantry could have carried it; for the infantry, look you, is everything in an army——­”

“But how about the cavalry?” cried Genestas, slipping down out of the hay in a sudden fashion that drew a startled cry from the boldest.

“He, old boy! you are forgetting Poniatowski’s Red Lancers, the Cuirassiers, the Dragoons, and the whole boiling.  Whenever Napoleon grew tired of seeing his battalions gain no ground towards the end of a victory, he would say to Murat, ‘Here, you! cut them in two for me!’ and we set out first at a trot, and then at a gallop, one, two! and cut a way clean through the ranks of the enemy; it was like slicing an apple in two with a knife.  Why, a charge of cavalry is nothing more nor less than a column of cannon balls.”

“And how about the pontooners?” cried the deaf veteran.

“There, there! my children,” Genestas went on, repenting in his confusion of the sally he had made, when he found himself in the middle of a silent and bewildered group, “there are no agents of police spying here!  Here, drink to the Little Corporal with this!”

“Long live the Emperor!” all cried with one voice.

“Hush! children,” said the officer, concealing his own deep sorrow with an effort.  “Hush! He is dead.  He died saying, ’Glory, France, and battle.’  So it had to be, children, he must die; but his memory —­never!”