Over there is the Duke of Brunswick--whose father, in 1789, had led into France that ill-fated invasion which struggled with mud and rain and green grapes until it was in condition to be demoralized by the slight cannonade of Dumouriez and the cavalry charge of Kellerman--thus bringing derision upon its commander who had issued the famous proclamation in which he threatened Paris with destruction. There is Pozzo di Borgo, the Corsican, the boyhood acquaintance of Napoleon. They had taken different sides in petty Corsican politics; there had been an affray at the polls, Pozzo had been knocked down and roughly handled by the Bonaparte faction. Here was the origin of one of the most active, vindictive and persistent hatreds on record; and there is no doubt whatever that the Corsican gentleman who now glitters in this brilliant throng, in the Duchess of Richmond’s ball-room, has done Napoleon a vast deal of harm. It was he, more than any other, who influenced the Emperor Alexander against Napoleon. It was he, more than any other, who in 1814 persuaded the Allies to revoke the order, already given, to retreat upon the Rhine and, instead, to march straight upon Paris. More notable still, is another opponent of Napoleon whom we see in this famous ball-room. It is Sir Sydney Smith. “_That man caused me to miss my destiny!_” exclaimed Napoleon. For Sir Sydney was the unconquerable Englishman who threw himself into Acre and showed the Turks how to defend it. Against those walls the French dashed themselves in vain. Baffled, exhausted, his rear threatened, his heart filled with impotent rage, Napoleon had to abandon his gorgeous visions of Eastern conquest and drink to the dregs a bitter cup of humiliation. Of course the Duke of Wellington is here, and many of the officers of his army. The French nobles (emigrés) are represented by some of the proudest names of the _Ancient Régime_. Ladies of high degree are present--ladies of beauty, wit, and grace, some from Belgium, France, England, but none of these are so well known as a certain pretty, doting, neglected wife named Amelia, and a dashing, brilliant, wicked adventuress, Becky Sharp, whom Thackeray brings to the ball. As long as there is such a thing as English literature these two, together with the prodigal George Osborne and honest William Dobbin, will move amid those revellers and live amid the stirring scenes of the Eve of Waterloo. “A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes that spake again, And all went merrily as a marriage bell.”