eps; I must continue in it or die. What can I do? What
can I become? Take service in some foreign army? Never! The fate of
Moreau is still before my eyes.... Oh Fortune! What have I done to thee
that I should be dashed so low, when thou wast preparing to raise me so
high?"

Clementine tried to console him with soothing words.

"You shall live near us," said she. "We will find you a pretty little
wife, and you can rear your children. In your leisure moments you can
write the history of the great deeds you have done. You will want for
nothing: youth, health, fortune, family, all that makes up the
happiness of men, is yours. Why then should you not be happy?"

Leon and his parents talked with him in the same way. Everything
appertaining to the festive occasion was forgotten in the presence of an
affliction so real and a dejection so profound.

He roused himself little by little, and even sang, at dessert, a little
song which he had prepared for the occasion.

Here's a health to these fortunate lovers
Who, on this thrice blessed day,
Have singed with the torch of chaste Hymen,
The wings with which Cupid doth stray.
And now, little volatile boy-god,
You must keep yourself quiet at home--
Enchained there by this happy marriage
Where Genius and Beauty are one.

He'll make it, henceforth, his endeavor
To keep Pleasure in Loyalty's power,
Forgetting his naughty old habit
Of roaming from flower to flower.
And Clementine makes the task easy,
For roses spring up at her smile:
From thence the young rascal can steal them
As well as in Venus's isle.

The verses were loudly applauded, but the poor Colonel smiled sadly,
talked but little, and did not get fuddled at all. The man with the
broken ear could not at all console himself for having a slit ear.[11]
He took part in the various diversions of the day, but was no longer
the brilliant companion who had inspired everything with his impetuous
gayety.

The Marshal buttonholed him during the evening and said: "What are you
thinking about?"

"I'm thinking of the old messmates who were happy enough to fall at
Waterloo with their faces toward the enemy. That old fool of a Dutchman
who preserved me for posterity, did me but a sorry service. I tell you,
Leblanc, a man ought to live in his own day. Later is too late."

"Oh, pshaw, Fougas, don't talk nonsense! There's nothing desperate in
the case.