would have seen another fate!" The invasion, the truce, the martyr of
St. Helena, the ghastly terror of Europe, the murder of Murat--the idol
of the cavalry, the death of Ney, Bruno, Mouton Duvernet, and so many
other whole-souled men whom he had known, admired, and loved, threw him
into a series of paroxysms of rage, but nothing upset him. In hearing of
the death of Napoleon, he swore that he would eat the heart of England;
the slow agony of the pale and interesting heir of the Empire, inspired
him with a passion to tear the vitals out of Austria. When the drama was
over and the curtain fell on Schoenbrunn, he dashed away his tears and
said: "It is well. I have lived in a moment a man's entire life. Now
show me the map of France!"

Leon began to turn over the leaves of an atlas, while M. Renault
attempted to continue narrating to the colonel the history of the
Restoration, and of the monarchy of 1830. But Fougas' interest was in
other things.

"What do I care," said he, "if a couple of hundred babblers of deputies
put one king in place of another? Kings! I've seen enough of them in the
dirt. If the Empire had lasted ten years longer, I could have had a king
for a boot-black."

When the atlas was placed before him, he at once cried out with profound
disdain: "That, France!" But soon two tears of pitying affection
escaping from his eyes, swelled the rivers Ardeche and Gironde. He
kissed the map and said, with an emotion which communicated itself to
nearly all present:

"Forgive me, poor old love, for insulting your misfortunes. Those
scoundrels whom we always whipped have profited by my sleep to pare down
your frontiers; but little or great, rich or poor, you are my mother,
and I love you as a faithful son! Here is Corsica, where the giant of
our age was born; here is Toulouse, where I first saw the light; here is
Nancy where I felt my heart awakened, where, perhaps, she whom I call my
AEgle waits for me still! France! Thou hast a temple in my soul; this arm
is thine; thou shalt find me ever ready to shed my blood to the last
drop in defending or avenging thee!"

CHAPTER XII.

THE CONVALESCENT'S FIRST MEAL.

The messenger whom Leon had sent to Moret, could not reach there before
seven o'clock. Supposing that he would find the ladies at table with
their hosts, that the great news would cut the dinner short, and that
there would be a carriage handy, Clementine and her aunt would probably
be at Fontaineblea