itself. Within the precincts thus railed off stood the regiments of the
Old Guard about to be passed in review, drawn up opposite the Palace
in imposing blue columns, ten ranks in depth. Without and beyond in the
Place du Carrousel stood several regiments likewise drawn up in parallel
lines, ready to march in through the arch in the centre; the Triumphal
Arch, where the bronze horses of St. Mark from Venice used to stand in
those days. At either end, by the Galeries du Louvre, the regimental
bands were stationed, masked by the Polish Lancers then on duty.

The greater part of the vast graveled space was empty as an arena, ready
for the evolutions of those silent masses disposed with the symmetry
of military art. The sunlight blazed back from ten thousand bayonets in
thin points of flame; the breeze ruffled the men's helmet plumes till
they swayed like the crests of forest-trees before a gale. The mute
glittering ranks of veterans were full of bright contrasting colors,
thanks to their different uniforms, weapons, accoutrements, and
aiguillettes; and the whole great picture, that miniature battlefield
before the combat, was framed by the majestic towering walls of the
Tuileries, which officers and men seemed to rival in their immobility.
Involuntarily the spectator made the comparison between the walls of
men and the walls of stone. The spring sunlight, flooding white masonry
reared but yesterday and buildings centuries old, shone full likewise
upon thousands of bronzed faces, each one with its own tale of perils
passed, each one gravely expectant of perils to come.

The colonels of the regiments came and went alone before the ranks of
heroes; and behind the masses of troops, checkered with blue and silver
and gold and purple, the curious could discern the tricolor pennons on
the lances of some half-a-dozen indefatigable Polish cavalry, rushing
about like shepherds' dogs in charge of a flock, caracoling up and down
between the troops and the crowd, to keep the gazers within their proper
bounds. But for this slight flutter of movement, the whole scene might
have been taking place in the courtyard of the palace of the Sleeping
Beauty. The very spring breeze, ruffling up the long fur on the
grenadiers' bearskins, bore witness to the men's immobility, as the
smothered murmur of the crowd emphasized their silence. Now and again
the jingling of Chinese bells, or a chance blow to a big drum, woke
the reverberating echoes of the