Napoleon was the first to see--all the world sees now--how little was wanted to secure their ultimate triumph; how drill, a few kegs of powder, a few observant, able, cool heads where the exiles were congregated, and the prestige and authority of some royal name, might have built up again, it may be in justice, the ancient fabric surely in justice pulled down. They had no fair play. “Yet these same men, by bravery and enthusiasm, and by knowledge developed of short experience, conquered a part of France, obtained an honorable peace, and defended their cause with more glory and success than did the leagued allies.” As we get away from the grim ethics of history the æsthetics of it take shape and color, and give us an abstract pleasure from the centres of thought and pain. There is an unspeakable attractiveness, despite all, in the image of these turbulent years--an almost Arabian beguilement, as of something which never need be true. The course of events is like a romantic drama, full of “points,” of poses, of electric surprises; the dialogue flows in alexandrines; the crises are settled in the nick of time. The talk is the rhetoric of hearts sincere, but French. The devoted Marquis of Donnissan breaks in upon two duelling swords: “‘What! the Lord Christ pardons his executioners, and a soldier of the Christian army tries to slay his comrade?’ At these words they drop their swords and embrace each other!” Or, after the terrible battle of Mans, and not long before her little daughter’s birth, Madame de Lescure, hemmed in the choked streets of the city, catches in despair at the hand of a gentle-faced young trooper pushing by: “Sir, have pity on a poor woman who cannot go on. Help me!” Whereupon the young trooper weeps some feverish tears: “What can I do? I am a woman also!” Or that charming impostor, the pseudo-bishop of Agra, stands up before the serried lines, and sheds upon them such prose as Matthew Arnold should praise forever: “_Race antique et fidèle des serviteurs de nos rois, pieux zélateurs du trône et de l’autel, enfants de la Vendée, marchez, combattez, triomphez! C’est Dieu qui vous l’ordonne._”