walk brought me to the Hospital des Invalides. I reached it in the
morning when the court in front was filled with about three hundred
veterans on an early parade. Many of them were the shattered relics of
Napoleon's Grand Army--glorious old fellows in cocked hats and long blue
coats, and weather-beaten as the walls around them. After a few moments
I hurried into the Rotunda, which is nearly one hundred feet in height,
surrounded by six small recesses, or alcoves. "Where is Napoleon?" said
I to one of the sentinels. "There," said he, pointing to a recess, or
small chapel, hung with dark purple velvet and lighted by one glimmering
lamp. I approached the iron railing and, there before me, almost within
arm's length, in the marble coffin covered by his gray riding coat of
Marengo, lay all that was mortal of the great Emperor. At his feet was a
small urn containing his heart, and upon it lay his sword and the
military cap worn at the battle of Eylau. Beside the coffin was gathered
a group of tattered banners captured by him in many a victorious fight.
Three gray-haired veterans, whose breasts were covered with medals, were
pacing slowly on guard in front of the alcove. I said to them in French:
"Were you at Austerlitz?" "Oui, oui," they said. "Were you at Jena?"
"Oui, oui." "At Wagram?" "Oui, oui," they replied. I lingered long at
the spot, listening to the inspiring strains of the soldiery without,
and recalling to my mind the stirring days when the lifeless clay beside
me was dashing forward at the head of those very troops through the
passes of the Alps and over the bridge at Lodi. It seemed to me as a
dream, and I could scarcely realize that I stood within a few feet of
the actual body of that colossal wonder-worker whose extraordinary
combination of military and civil genius surpassed that of any other man
in modern history. And yet, when all shall be summoned at last before
the Great Tribunal, a Wilberforce, a Shaftesbury, or an Abraham Lincoln
will never desire to change places with him.