His troops were in
fine condition, but the rain seemed to have put out the fires of the
Commander's genius. As the Imperial Guard marched before him in
review the Emperor gazed upon them fondly.
"They're like a picture!" he cried, enthusiastically. "Just see that
line."
"Yes," returned Ney. "Very like a picture; they remind me in a way
of a comic paper print, but that is more suitable for framing than
for fighting."
The Emperor making no response, Ney looked up and observed that his
Majesty had fallen asleep. "That settles it," he sighed. "To-day is
the Waterloo of Napoleon Bonaparte. When a man sleeps at a moment
like this his friends would better prepare for a wake."
And Ney was right. Waterloo was the Waterloo of Napoleon Bonaparte.
The opposing armies met in conflict, and, as the world knows, the
star of the great soldier was obscured forever, and France was
conquered. Ruined in his fortunes, Bonaparte at once returned to
Paris.
"Is there a steamer for New York to-night, Fouche?" he asked, as,
completely worn out, he threw himself upon his throne and let his
chin hang dejectedly over his collar.
"No, Sire," returned Fouche, with an ill-concealed chuckle.
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