And even if one
must die, what did it matter? Death itself was so beautiful, so noble, so
illustrious, in his battle-scarred purple! It borrowed the color of hope,
it reaped so many ripening harvests that it became young, and there was
no more old age. All the cradles of France, as all its tombs, were armed
with shield and buckler; there were no more old men, there were corpses
or demi-gods.
Nevertheless, the immortal emperor stood one day on a hill watching seven
nations engaged in mutual slaughter; as he did not know whether he would
be master of all the world or only half, Azrael passed along, touched him
with the tip of his wing, and pushed him into the Ocean. At the noise of
his fall, the dying powers sat up in their beds of pain; and stealthily
advancing with furtive tread, all the royal spiders made the partition of
Europe, and the purple of Caesar became the frock of Harlequin.
Just as the traveler, sure of his way, hastens night and day through rain
and sunlight, regardless of vigils or of dangers; but when he has reached
his home and seated himself before the fire, he is seized upon by a
feeling of extreme lassitude and can hardly drag himself to his bed: thus
France, the widow of Caesar, suddenly felt her wound. She fell through
sheer exhaustion, and lapsed into a sleep so profound that her old kings,
believing her dead, wrapped about her a white shroud. The old army, its
hair whitened in service, returned exhausted with fatigue, and the
hearths of deserted castles sadly flickered into life.
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