I was not ignorant of his having taken part in the war--we used to speak of it simply as “the war”--and I could easily imagine him at the head of an army, whereas grandfather must always have preferred his violin and his telescope to swords, guns, pistols and other murderous engines. In vain had the Café des Navigateurs poured contempt upon all military glory: it still kept its prestige for me. Yet I could not easily understand how the French Guard and the grenadier in the drawing-room could have died, one for the King and the other for the Emperor, and yet both deserve the same praise, while the partisans of the Emperor were always exchanging opprobrious remarks with those of the King. Father explained: “For the soldier, there is only France. There is no nobler death.” Grandfather, being present, declared that in his opinion the noblest thing was to die for liberty. But he did not insist, and notwithstanding the silence which followed I saw that he had displeased my father. The idea seemed to haunt him, for he returned to it on our next walk, and described, with more enthusiasm than usual, a splendid epoch which he had known, compared with which our own period was but darkness. Our own period seemed to me quite endurable, between our walks and the Café. It appeared that at that time, as under the Revolution, liberty had a second time been set free, and when liberty is set free an era of universal peace and concord begins. Citizens moved by a fraternal impulse were working together in vast national workshops, a modest remuneration, the same for all, weak and strong, robust and malingerers, giving to each that contentment which arises from being sure of one’s daily bread. “That is what M. Martinod demands,” I said. “Martinod is right,” replied my companion, “but will he succeed where we came to grief?” “You came to grief, grandfather!” “We failed in the blood of the days of June.” _We failed in the blood of the days of June_. The meaning of the words might escape me, but they made music in my ears like the rolling of a drum. Long ago--three or four years perhaps--I had been excited over other mysterious words, such as the lament of the White Blackbird, _I was arranging trifles while you were in the woods_, and also that of the Nightingale, _All night long I strain my throat for her, but she sleeps and hears me not_. Now I found their melancholy somewhat insipid, and preferred this new rhythm, so war-like and full of pain. Touched to the heart I at once asked, as with Aunt Deen’s stories when I was little, “And what happened after that?” “A tyrant came.” Ah, this time it was all clear! A tyrant, a hospodar, to be sure! Aunt Deen’s hospodar, the famous man all dressed in red, who gave commands with loud shouts. “What tyrant?” I asked, by way of knowing it all. “Badinguet. Napoleon III. For that matter all emperors and all kings are tyrants.”