A Woman of Thirty | Page 6

and
beyond in the Place du Carrousel stood several regiments likewise
drawn up in parallel lines, ready to march in through the arch in the
centre; the Triumphal Arch, where the bronze horses of St. Mark from
Venice used to stand in those days. At either end, by the Galeries du
Louvre, the regimental bands were stationed, masked by the Polish
Lancers then on duty.
The greater part of the vast graveled space was empty as an arena,
ready for the evolutions of those silent masses disposed with the
symmetry of military art. The sunlight blazed back from ten thousand
bayonets in thin points of flame; the breeze ruffled the men's helmet
plumes till they swayed like the crests of forest-trees before a gale. The
mute glittering ranks of veterans were full of bright contrasting colors,
thanks to their different uniforms, weapons, accoutrements, and
aiguillettes; and the whole great picture, that miniature battlefield
before the combat, was framed by the majestic towering walls of the
Tuileries, which officers and men seemed to rival in their immobility.
Involuntarily the spectator made the comparison between the walls of
men and the walls of stone. The spring sunlight, flooding white
masonry reared but yesterday and buildings centuries old, shone full

likewise upon thousands of bronzed faces, each one with its own tale of
perils passed, each one gravely expectant of perils to come.
The colonels of the regiments came and went alone before the ranks of
heroes; and behind the masses of troops, checkered with blue and silver
and gold and purple, the curious could discern the tricolor pennons on
the lances of some half-a-dozen indefatigable Polish cavalry, rushing
about like shepherds' dogs in charge of a flock, caracoling up and down
between the troops and the crowd, to keep the gazers within their
proper bounds. But for this slight flutter of movement, the whole scene
might have been taking place in the courtyard of the palace of the
Sleeping Beauty. The very spring breeze, ruffling up the long fur on the
grenadiers' bearskins, bore witness to the men's immobility, as the
smothered murmur of the crowd emphasized their silence. Now and
again the jingling of Chinese bells, or a chance blow to a big drum,
woke the reverberating echoes of the Imperial Palace with a sound like
the far-off rumblings of thunder.
An indescribable, unmistakable enthusiasm was manifest in the
expectancy of the multitude. France was about to take farewell of
Napoleon on the eve of a campaign of which the meanest citizen
foresaw the perils. The existence of the French Empire was at stake--to
be, or not to be. The whole citizen population seemed to be as much
inspired with this thought as that other armed population standing in
serried and silent ranks in the enclosed space, with the Eagles and the
genius of Napoleon hovering above them.
Those very soldiers were the hope of France, her last drop of blood;
and this accounted for not a little of the anxious interest of the scene.
Most of the gazers in the crowd had bidden farewell--perhaps farewell
for ever--to the men who made up the rank and file of the battalions;
and even those most hostile to the Emperor, in their hearts, put up
fervent prayers to heaven for the glory of France; and those most weary
of the struggle with the rest of Europe had left their hatreds behind as
they passed in under the Triumphal Arch. They too felt that in the hour
of danger Napoleon meant France herself.
The clock of the Tuileries struck the half-hour. In a moment the hum of
the crowd ceased. The silence was so deep that you might have heard a
child speak. The old noble and his daughter, wholly intent, seeming to
live only by their eyes, caught a distinct sound of spurs and clank of

swords echoing up under the sonorous peristyle.
And suddenly there appeared a short, somewhat stout figure in a green
uniform, white trousers, and riding boots; a man wearing on his head a
cocked hat well-nigh as magically potent as its wearer; the broad red
ribbon of the Legion of Honor rose and fell on his breast, and a short
sword hung at his side. At one and the same moment the man was seen
by all eyes in all parts of the square.
Immediately the drums beat a salute, both bands struck up a martial
refrain, caught and repeated like a fugue by every instrument from the
thinnest flutes to the largest drum. The clangor of that call to arms
thrilled through every soul. The colors dropped, and the men presented
arms, one unanimous rhythmical movement shaking every bayonet
from the foremost front near the Palace to the last rank in the Place du
Carrousel. The words of command