That wonderfully dramatic, if sometimes contested episode, of the Vengeur going down into the waves with all her crew, sooner than surrender, is supposed to have taken place at the close of the battle of the 13th Prairial.  I have often heard the story attributed to Barrere, who, being obliged to give an account of the lost battle to the Convention, endeavoured thus to gild the pill.  I questioned my two old sailor friends eagerly concerning this incident of the struggle wherein they had both played their part.

On another occasion I made personal inquiries of one of the last survivors of the Vengeur, to whom I had been commissioned to convey the Cross of the Legion of Honour.  Putting together what I gathered from these various individuals, and what I collected elsewhere, I believe the exact truth concerning the episode in question to be as follows: 

Towards the end of the fight, after having grappled for a long time, at close quarters, with the British warship the Brunswick, the Vengeur, riddled with shot on every side, and utterly dismasted, was shipping water through her ports with every roll of the sea.  In this condition she must have sunk before long.  The engagement was over—­it was six o’clock at night.  The English warships Alfred and Culloden, and the Rattler, cutter, came to the Vengeur’s assistance, and set to work, with the few of their boats which had not been smashed during the fight, to save Renaudin, her plucky captain, and his son, first of all, and then take off the crew.  The Alfred took off two hundred and thirteen men, the Culloden and Rattler almost as many more; but the work of rescue was still going on when the ship foundered, carrying with her not only all the most seriously wounded men, but about forty unwounded sailors, who seeing death was inevitable, bravely greeted its approach with shouts of “Vive la Nation!  Vive la Republique!” The story is such a splendid one as it is, that it needs no imaginary embellishments whatever.

Let me return for a moment to my excellent academician friend, M. Dupaty, whose acquaintance I had made in the most absurd fashion.  In the palmy days of the warlike enthusiasm of the Citizen Guard the worthy Dupaty was a captain in the 1st battalion of the 2nd Legion, commanded by Commandant Talabot.  One evening, when he was on guard at the Palais Royal, he had been reciting some verses in my father’s drawing-room, and, somewhat intoxicated perhaps by poetic enthusiasm, he begged the King to put one of his sons into his company.  His Majesty burst out laughing and said: 

“There’s Joinville, he knows all his rifle-drill very well; he has had one of the old Invalides to teach him.  He’ll do for you.”