My Lord! THE DUKE. For in the volume whose sublime Chapters are headed with proud capitals You are the titles and you catch the eye; But these--these are the thousand little letters-- You're nought, without the black and humble army That goes to make a page of history. Oh, my brave Flambeau, painter of my soldiers, To think while you were near me all this month, I only looked upon you as a spy. FLAMBEAU. Oh, our acquaintance dates much further back! THE DUKE. How so? FLAMBEAU. Can't you recall me? THE DUKE. Not at all. FLAMBEAU. One Thursday in the garden of Saint Cloud Marshal Duroc stood with a maid-in-waiting, Watching your Highness at his nurse's breast-- Its whiteness, I remember, startled me. Marshal Duroc exclaimed, "Come here!" I came. But there were lots of things to make me nervous: The Imperial child, the gorgeous rosy sleeves The Maid of honor wore, Duroc, the breast-- In short, the tuft was shivering on my bearskin; So much so that your Highness noticed it. You gazed upon it pensively: what was it? And while you hailed it with a milky laugh You seemed uncertain which to admire the more About this moving scarlet miracle: Its motion, or the fact that it was scarlet. Suddenly, while I stooped, your little hands Began lo pull the precious tuft about. Seeing my plight, the Marshal cried severely, "Don't interfere"--I didn't interfere; But having sunk upon my knees I heard The nurse, the marshal, and the lady laughing. And when I rose the grass was strewn with red: As for my tuft, that was a beardless wire. "I'll sign an order," said Duroc, "for two." Back to my quarters then I strutted radiant; "You there! hulloa!" exclaimed the Adjutant, "Who's plucked you?" And I cried: "The King of Rome!" And that is how one Thursday morn I met Your Majesty. Your Highness has developed. THE DUKE. No, not developed: that is why I grieve. My "Majesty" has shrivelled to my "Highness." MARMONT. [_To_ FLAMBEAU.] But since the Empire fell, what have you done? FLAMBEAU.