"That last war with the English!"

"Faith," said I, "that was the justest of all."

"Just!" cried the Frenchman, halting abruptly and darting at me a glance
of fire, "just! no more, Sir! no more! I was at Blenheim and at
Ramilies!"

As the old warrior said the last words, his voice faltered; and though I
could not help inly smiling at the confusion of ideas by which wars were
just or unjust, according as they were fortunate or not, yet I respected
his feelings enough to turn away my face and remain silent.

"Yes," renewed my comrade, colouring with evident shame and drawing his
cocked hat over his brows, "yes, I received my last wound at Ramilies.
/Then/ my eyes were opened to the horrors of war; /then/ I saw and
cursed the evils of ambition; /then/ I resolved to retire from the
armies of a king who had lost forever his name, his glory, and his
country."

Was there ever a better type of the French nation than this old soldier?
As long as fortune smiles on them, it is "Marchons au diable!" and "Vive
la gloire!" Directly they get beaten, it is "Ma pauvre patrie!" and
"Les calamites affreuses de la guerre!"

"However," said I, "the old King is drawing near the end of his days,
and is said to express his repentance at the evils his ambition has
occasioned."