Larrey, on the contrary, was austerely puritanic in appearance. He wore his hair quite long, trimmed after the fashion of Merovingian princes: he spoke slowly and seriously. The emperor was said to have spoken of him as the most honest man he ever knew. Apart from the influence of sincere kindliness that he diffused among young people, Larrey presented a curious study to us all. He had known every celebrated personage of the Empire; and he had cut off most of the arms and legs that needed amputation; he had collected much curious information indicative of character or of the secrets of the soul, by listening to the first words of the wounded and the last words of the dying. He would sometimes relate anecdotes which, without any malicious intention, gave one an idea of the ignorance of those decorated and beplumed warriors, who were in the main lion-hearted, but also, for the most part, of dull intellect, and infinitely less brilliant in any drawing-room than on a battlefield. When Larrey returned from Egypt he brought back a curiosity that is not thought much of nowadays, in the shape of a mummy, but which at that time raised scientific curiosity to the highest pitch. When he met Augereau, he said to him-- "Ah! come now and dine with me to-morrow; I will show you a mummy I have brought back from the Pyramids." "With pleasure," Augereau replied; and he went next day to dinner. "Well," he said at dessert, "why have we not seen that mummy yet?" "Because it is in my study," said Larrey. "Follow me, and you shall see it." Larrey led the way, Augereau following full of curiosity. When they reached the study, Larrey went to the box, which was leaning up against the wall, opened it, and revealed the mummy. Then Augereau approached and touched it with his finger. "I declare," he exclaimed contemptuously, "it is dead!" Larrey was so astonished by this exclamation that he did not even bethink himself to offer apologies to Augereau for having disturbed him to look at so uninteresting an object as a _dead mummy._ But throughout that period everybody was literary, not in themselves, or from choice, but from tradition. No one had yet forgotten that Bonaparte had signed his own proclamations to the Army of Egypt, and that Napoleon had accosted M. de Fontanes every time he met him with the question-- "Well, Monsieur de Fontanes, have you found me a poet?"