The Confession of a Child of the Century | Page 3

a silence about
those who spoke of death. And yet there was never such joy, such life,
such fanfares of war, in all hearts. Never was there such pure sunlight
as that which dried all this blood. God made the sun for this man, men
said; and they called it the Sun of Austerlitz. But he made this sunlight
himself with his ever-booming guns that left no clouds but those which
succeed the day of battle.
It was this air of the spotless sky, where shone so much glory, where
glistened so many swords, that the youth of the time breathed. They
well knew that they were destined to the slaughter; but they believed
that Murat was invulnerable, and the Emperor had been seen to cross a
bridge where so many bullets whistled that they wondered if he were
mortal. And even if one must die, what did it matter? Death itself was
so beautiful, so noble, so illustrious, in its battle-scarred purple! It
borrowed the color of hope, it reaped so many immature harvests that it
became young, and there was no more old age. All the cradles of
France, as indeed all its tombs, were armed with bucklers; there were
no more graybeards, there were only corpses or demi-gods.

Nevertheless the immortal Emperor stood one day on a hill watching
seven nations engaged in mutual slaughter, not knowing whether he
would be master of all the world or only half. Azrael passed, touched
the warrior with the tip of his wing, and hurled him into the ocean. At
the noise of his fall, the dying Powers sat up in their beds of pain; and
stealthily advancing with furtive tread, the royal spiders made partition
of Europe, and the purple of Caesar became the motley of Harlequin.
Just as the traveller, certain of his way, hastes night and day through
rain and sunlight, careless of vigils or of dangers, but, safe at home and
seated before the fire, is seized by extreme lassitude and can hardly
drag himself to bed, so France, the widow of Caesar, suddenly felt her
wound. She fell through sheer exhaustion, and lapsed into a coma so
profound that her old kings, believing her dead, wrapped about her a
burial shroud. The veterans, their hair whitened in service, returned
exhausted, and the hearths of deserted castles sadly flickered into life.
Then the men of the Empire, who had been through so much, who had
lived in such carnage, kissed their emaciated wives and spoke of their
first love. They looked into the fountains of their native fields and
found themselves so old, so mutilated, that they bethought themselves
of their sons, in order that these might close the paternal eyes in peace.
They asked where they were; the children came from the schools, and,
seeing neither sabres, nor cuirasses, neither infantry nor cavalry, asked
in turn where were their fathers. They were told that the war was ended,
that Caesar was dead, and that the portraits of Wellington and of
Blucher were suspended in the ante-chambers of the consulates and the
embassies, with this legend beneath: 'Salvatoribus mundi'.
Then came upon a world in ruins an anxious youth. The children were
drops of burning blood which had inundated the earth; they were born
in the bosom of war, for war. For fifteen years they had dreamed of the
snows of Moscow and of the sun of the Pyramids.
They had not gone beyond their native towns; but had been told that
through each gateway of these towns lay the road to a capital of Europe.
They had in their heads a world; they saw the earth, the sky, the streets
and the highways; but these were empty, and the bells of parish

churches resounded faintly in the distance.
Pale phantoms, shrouded in black robes, slowly traversed the
countryside; some knocked at the doors of houses, and, when admitted,
drew from their pockets large, well-worn documents with which they
evicted the tenants. From every direction came men still trembling with
the fear that had seized them when they had fled twenty years before.
All began to urge their claims, disputing loudly and crying for help;
strange that a single death should attract so many buzzards.
The King of France was on his throne, looking here and there to see if
he could perchance find a bee [symbol of Napoleon D.W.] in the royal
tapestry. Some men held out their hats, and he gave them money;
others extended a crucifix and he kissed it; others contented themselves
with pronouncing in his ear great names of powerful families, and he
replied to these by inviting them into his grand salle, where the echoes
were more sonorous; still others showed him their old cloaks, when
they had carefully effaced the bees,