meurt, mais ne se rend jamais! There is a
whole epic in the despair of these brave men.
Yet at this moment the legend hangs by but
a hair. Courtesy towards a grand and
romantic nation, and a sort of natural delicacy in
reference to tell the transactions of that
memorable day, has hitherto restrained any Saxon
tampering with the legend, or any rude prying
into its elements. But it is to be feared
that another shock of the great ram, stem on,
which sunk the Vengeur, would be equally
fatal to this little cockboat full of heroics.
The supporters of the French side of the
conversation are not agreed to what was said, or
as to who said what they are not agreed was
said. The Cambronne family, as is only natural,
and that more comprehensive family, the hero-
worshippers, hold fast by the "magnanimous"
speech. Others admitting their title, insist that
the answer of the brave soldier did not expand
itself to such length, but took the shape of a
short, blunt, and unparliamentary single word.

The Englishmen on whom the humane
invitation to surrender was said to have been flung
back, bear no testimony to the splendid flourish
—it never having reached them. Finally,
however, the probabilities of the legend are fatally
endangered by these brave men having fought
gallantly to the last; surrendering like sensible
men.

Still it would not do that so brilliant a patch
of tinsel should be torn from the French flags,
or even be loosened in the smallest degree. The
government sempstresses are set to work.
Search is made for an old man, and again they
are lucky enough to find the necessary " veillard."
He is of the usual traditional type, and
seems to be modelled on the pattern of
Sergeant Austerlitz, in the little vaudeville. He
is discovered in some obscure French town,
enjoying his modest pension. He is seen at
Wagram, and the Little Corporal coming along
the lines has stopped and said, " Did I not
see thee at Rivoli?" and then familiarly pulling
the whisker or moustache of the favoured
private, has passed on, leaving glistening eyes
behind. He is now greyer than any badger,
and wears a little bit of copper attached to a
ragged bit of silk. But he is now found, this
invaluable old man, and brought to Paris to the
office of the minister of war, who is quite
unofficial, and allows the aged man to rattle on
with the garrulity of old soldiers. To be sure, he
recollects that fatal day. Vive l'Empereur. Did
he not see him ride along the line mounted on
his famous white horse, his telescope in his hand?
Well, well, but for treachery somewhere the day
would have been ours.

This octogenarian relic being encouraged to
speak further, tells the story of the last square of
the Garde, which is duly embodied in a sort of
procès verbal. How the English general shouted
to them, " Surrender!" and how General
Cambronne, in distinct tones, uttered the memorable
and mournful defiance. How the Englishman,
after the stimulant of a volley, to give time for
reflection, again repeated his invitation, with
additions and alterations, "Grenadiers, surrender!
You shall be treated as the first soldiers in
the world." How, thereupon, the Grenadiers
burst out in an obstreperous chorus that the
Guard might die, but would never surrender,
and that, thereupon, came the final discharge,
which swept the devoted battalion away, and the
old man received a blow which levelled him to
the ground, and prevented his knowing more.

The veteran of perfidious Albion, appealed to
for their version, heard not a word of the grand
Grenadier chorus. They testify that the brave
Grenadiers of the Garde did their devoir nobly
and gallantly to the last—fought heroically, and
then, when further fighting was hopeless and
unprofitable, did lay down their arms. The Garde
did die, when their dying was to be any profit to
the cause they supported; but not in the blind
stupid way their admirers would have us credit.

What more effective and practical than the
famous Brussels ball, given by the duchess,
where the brilliant uniforms were glittering and
the officers dancing, when the splashed orderly
rides up on a spent steed with a despatch for
the general! And the news is whispered round
that the French are advancing, and that not a
moment is to be lost. Then the music stops,
and the officers hurry away in their silk stockings
and pumps, many having danced their last
pas in this life. II y est quelque chose de
sublime! There is here something of the true
melodrama of life, better and more effective than
Porte St. Martin melodrames; and English
poets have felt the power of the theme and
grown eloquent. Yet here is the iron ram once
more plunging down madly on the pretty and
sentimental craft. The whole piece turns out
to have been rehearsed and learnt by heart.
Every one there knew of the French advance
before the ball began. The poor captains
dancing there, had their small campaigning trunks
ready packed at home. They stayed till
midnight, and then went their way as they might
from another entertainment in more piping times
of peace. The splashed orderly fades out. There
is no panting steed at the gate: no flutter of
commotion over the dazzling company as the
agitated commander reads.

Yet one more Waterloo demolition. Surely
posterity is to hear the quick sharp voice of the
famous commander, who has been playing Fabius
all day long, keeping his fighting hounds steadily
in leash for all their struggles and chafings;
surely he is to ride along the line at the end of
the famous day, and closing up his glass with a
smart click, give the wished-for signal, " Up,
Guards, and at them!" No. This, too, must
be hurried away into limbo. The fighting Duke
himself takes the knife and slits open this wind-
bag. Appealed to again and again, he cannot
charge his memory with the words, nay, is
positive he never used them.

There remains yet one more windbag for the
horns of the critical bull to rend open. William
Pitt lies upon his bed of death—some say
brought there by the news of the battle of
Austerlitz; some have it that his heart was broken