Imperial Palace with a sound like the
far-off rumblings of thunder.

An indescribable, unmistakable enthusiasm was manifest in the expectancy
of the multitude. France was about to take farewell of Napoleon on the
eve of a campaign of which the meanest citizen foresaw the perils. The
existence of the French Empire was at stake--to be, or not to be. The
whole citizen population seemed to be as much inspired with this thought
as that other armed population standing in serried and silent ranks in
the enclosed space, with the Eagles and the genius of Napoleon hovering
above them.

Those very soldiers were the hope of France, her last drop of blood; and
this accounted for not a little of the anxious interest of the scene.
Most of the gazers in the crowd had bidden farewell--perhaps farewell
for ever--to the men who made up the rank and file of the battalions;
and even those most hostile to the Emperor, in their hearts, put up
fervent prayers to heaven for the glory of France; and those most weary
of the struggle with the rest of Europe had left their hatreds behind as
they passed in under the Triumphal Arch. They too felt that in the hour
of danger Napoleon meant France herself.

The clock of the Tuileries struck the half-hour. In a moment the hum of
the crowd ceased. The silence was so deep that you might have heard a
child speak. The old noble and his daughter, wholly intent, seeming to
live only by their eyes, caught a distinct sound of spurs and clank of
swords echoing up under the sonorous peristyle.

And suddenly there appeared a short, somewhat stout figure in a green
uniform, white trousers, and riding boots; a man wearing on his head a
cocked hat well-nigh as magically potent as its wearer; the broad red
ribbon of the Legion of Honor rose and fell on his breast, and a short
sword hung at his side. At one and the same moment the man was seen by
all eyes in all parts of the square.

Immediately the drums beat a salute, both bands struck up a martial
refrain, caught and repeated like a fugue by every instrument from the
thinnest flutes to the largest drum. The clangor of that call to arms
thrilled through every soul. The colors dropped, and the men presented
arms, one unanimous rhythmical movement shaking every bayonet from
the foremost front near the Palace to the last rank in the Place du
Carrousel. The words of command sped from line to line like echoes. The
whole enthusiastic multitude sent up a shout of "Long