For full two hours the cortege continued to roll on,--wagon after wagon, filled with the shattered remnants of an army. Yet such was the indomitable spirit of the people, such the heartfelt passion for glory, all deemed that procession the proudest triumph of their arms. Nor was this feeling confined to the spectators; the wounded themselves leaned eagerly over the sides of the _charrettes_ to gaze into the crowds on either side, seeking some old familiar face, and looking through all their sufferings proudly on the dense mob beneath them. Some tried to cheer, and waved their powerless hands; but others, faint and heart-sick, turned their glazed eyes towards the “Invalides,” whose lofty dome appeared above the trees, as though to say, that was now their resting-place,--the only one before the grave. He who witnessed that day could have little doubt about the guiding spirit of the French nation; nor could he distrust their willingness to sacrifice anything--nay, all--to national glory. Suffering and misery, wounds, ghastly and dreadful, were on every side; and yet not one word of pity, not a look of compassion was there. These men were, in _their_ eyes, far too highly placed for sympathy; theirs was that path to which all aspired, and their trophies were their own worn frames and mangled bodies. And then how they brightened up as the Emperor would draw near! how even the faintest would strive to catch his eye and gaze with parted lips on him as he spoke, as though drinking in his very words,--the balm to their bruised hearts,--and the faint cry of “l'Empereur! l'Empereur!” passed like a murmur along the line. Not until the last wagon had defiled before him did the Emperor leave the ground. It was then nearly dark, and already the lamps were lighted along the quays, and the windows of the Palace displayed the brilliant lustre of the preparations for a grand dinner to the marshals. As we moved slowly along in close order, I found myself among a group of officers of the Emperor's staffs eagerly discussing the day and its events. “I am sorry for Duchesne,” said one; “with all his impertinences--and he had enough of them--he was a brave fellow, and a glorious leader at a moment of difficulty.” “Well, well, the Emperor has perhaps forgiven him by this time; and it is not likely he would mar the happiness of a day like this by disgracing an officer of the _élite_.” “You are wrong, my friend; his Majesty is not sorry for the occasion which can prove that he knows as well how to punish as to reward. Duchesne's fate is sealed. You are not old enough to remember, as I can, the morning at Lonado, where the same _ardre du jour_ conferred a mark of honor on one brother, and condemned another to be shot.” “And was this, indeed, the case?”