FinermanWorks

First, forgive my absence.  I hope you didn’t imagine that I was preoccupied as Mitt Romney’s speechwriter.  “Golly, I love you Hispanics.  You know, I have a Velazquez in my favorite bathroom.”  No, any of my retching was done with a good conscience and miserable lungs.  For the last week, coughing was my primary form of expression.  Since my ailment was a virus, the doctor told me that I might as well go to a Christian Science reading room.  Just wait it out–and expectorate some more customers for him.

I finally am now feeling better, which is more than Charles IV of France would have said on this day in 1328…

His death was the end of the Capetian dynasty and the likely start of a Dan Brown novel.  (The family was said to be cursed by the Grandmaster of the Templars–while he was being burned alive; the man was entitled to be vindictive.)  Charles was the last of three brothers, whose reigns were a total of 13 years.  Between the three–Louis X, Philip V and the aforementioned Charles–they had been married six times.  Yet, they left no living sons.  There were five healthy daughters but they didn’t count–at least in the royal succession.  That was the result of a law in 1316 and a scandal two years earlier.

At the time, Louis had yet to become the Tenth; but he was already known as ”The Quarrelsome.”  His wife Margaret obviously was unhappy but not exactly resigned.  There was a good looking Norman lord at court, and a convenient rendez-vous at the Tour de Nesle.  The Paris palais may have been discreet but Margaret wasn’t.  She told her sister-in-law Blanche, the bored wife of Charles, about the therapeutic locale and also recommended a Norman boy toy.  It is possible that the third sister-in-law Jeanne knew about the activities.  If so, she shared the dirty joke without becoming one.  Since I am telling you (and I am not a Norman stud), the secret evidently got.  The informant was Isabelle, the sister of the cuckolded brothers.  She was married to the King of England, but she was the lesser queen of the two.  Now, if she had to endure a maritial travesty, she was not going to let her sisters-in-law enjoy themselves.  Isabelle informed her father, King Philip IV, of the scandal.

The two Norman lovers were arrested, tortured into confessions and then publicly vivisected.  Margaret, Blanche and Jeanne were all accused of adultery; but since adultery requires at least two people, Jeanne had to be acquitted.  Margaret and Blanche did not have that defense.  They were condemned to life in convents.  The scandal as well as 14th century medicine probably hastened the death of King Philip.  Louis the Quarrelsome became king and he was impatient for an annulment.  By a remarkable coincidence, Margaret died the next year.  Louis was probably more surprised when he died in 1316.  The diagnosis was the 27 year-old caught pleurisy playing tennis, although some sources think that Duchess Jeanne had served wine after the game.  But Jeanne was not Queen yet.  Louis’ new wife and newer widow was pregnant, and she did give birth to a son.  The infant king lived for only five days.  Some sources think that Duchess Jeanne handled the christening robes.

But Jeanne’s husband was still not the certain successor.  Louis ostensibly and his first wife definitely had a daughter.  The four-year had a better claim to the throne–if she was the daughter of Louis.  Her mother was guilty of adultery in 1314, but there was no evidence of any indiscretion two prior to that.  Since the child was inconveniently legitimate, the only way to disinherit her was to change the law.  Although it was the 14th century, the aspiring Philip V decided that fifth century German law was the correct arbiter of royal succession.  And according to that law, the royal succession was limited to men and only through male descent.  So the princess could grow up and have sons (she did), but they still would be ineligible for the French throne.

Philip was now the rightful king, but with appropriate irony he and Jeanne had only daughters.  So his successor was brother Charles.  He understandably had his first marriage annulled, then married two more times and had a daughter to survive him.  The throne passed his first cousin, the direct and purely testosterone-linked grandson of Philip III.  But there was still one male descendant of Philip IV, albeit through a daughter.  Edward III of England was the son of Isabelle, the termagent who tattled on her sisters-in-law, and he claimed the throne of France.  He and his descendants would spend the next hundred years in a brutal form of probate.

The French crown never bothered to change its convoluted succession.  Daughters and nieces were disqualified, as were their sons.  In 1589, when Henry III died without an heir, his cousin Henry de Bourbon rightfully claimed the throne because of his uninterrupted male descent from Louis IX, who died in 1270.  But after all that effort to disinherit the daughter of Louis X…Henry IV was also directly descended from her.

November 17, 1869:  the Suez Canal is open for business.

Several years ago, I wrote an article on the construction of the Suez Canal.  In my research I read the New York Times’ coverage of the politics and theatrics that were inevitable in the engineering feat.  Even more amazing than building a hundred mile long canal through the desert is the fact that the prose style of the Times has not changed in 150 years.  The Times was unbelievably pompous back then, too.

In his account of the Canal’s opening in 1869, the reporter found the gala celebration to be a wonderful excuse to talk about himself.  (Ironically, the reporter’s name is not identified, surprising discretion for a monumental megalomaniac.)  Apparently neither the canal’s builder Ferdinand de Lesseps nor the Viceroy of Egypt had a greater challenge or higher calling than to entertain the New York Times.  I am sorry to say that the Canal got a poor review, however.  The reporter had unsatisfactory seating in the parade of boats floating down the canal; the receptions were too crowded (the Empress of France and the Austrian Emperor were served food before the Times); the fireworks were too loud and garish.    If only Peter Sellars or at least Julie Taymor had been allowed to build the Suez Canal!

I also found the Times’ report of the debate in Parliament after Disraeli’s brilliant if probably illegal coup in acquiring the ownership of the Suez Canal in 1875.  The Viceroy of Egypt had gone bankrupt and, beset by creditors, he offered his share of the Canal for a relatively paltrey 4 million British pounds.  We can speculate why Disraeli had such a gift for buying wholesale,  but he certainly appreciated a bargain and seized the opportunity.  There was a rival offer from a French business consortium, but  Disraeli was prepared to outbid it.  However, the French offered ready money while Disraeli was handicapped by British banking hours.  The Bank of England was closed for the weekend.

But Disraeli was on excellent terms with the Rothschild family.   (Do I need to explain why?)  He went that evening to the home of his friend Lionel Rothschild and asked for the money.  The banker was finishing his dinner, enjoying a dessert of muscatel grapes.  He asked Disraeli what would be the collateral for the loan.  Disraeli replied, “the British government.”  Rothschild answered, “You shall have the money in the morning.”  In fact, the Rothschild loan was on better terms than the Bank of England could have offered.  The Rothschilds offered immediate money, the same rate of interest and–at no extra cost–assumed complete responsiblity for the transfer of the funds from London to the Viceroy himself.

So Britain acquired control of the Suez Canal, and Parliament learned about it in the newspapers.  (Disraeli did have the tact to tell Queen Victoria.)  Of course, Parliament would discuss the matter after the fact, but what could it do or say?  Cancel such a brilliant feat?  Yes, it could complain about the questionable legality of the purchase; but even the opposition  had to concede that the situation did not permit time for a debate.   Nonetheless, the Liberal leader William Gladstone felt obliged to raise one issue–how was the Viceroy of Egypt going to spend that money!

Gladstone expressed his fears that the money would be used to finance Egypt’s invasion of Ethopia.  Apparently Gladstone had just seen a production of  “Aida” and confused the opera’s plot with Egypt’s foreign policy.  Egypt had indeed attempted to conquer Sudan–and was losing.  The Egyptian losses were one of the chief reasons that the Viceroy was bankrupt.  Given the fact that the Viceroy already was losing one war, he was unlikely to start another.  However, this hypothetical situation was the chief complaint that Gladstone raised against acquiring the Suez Canal.

Finding the Times  coverage of this debate, I anticipated reading a dazzling rhetorical duel between the two great rivals of British politics.  Disraeli is still renowned for his wit, and I imagined him devastating the self-righteous, humorless Gladstone.  Yet, the Times story did not quote Disraeli at all.  He must have said something; he was never known for modesty or reticence.  But here he was at his political heights, and the Times did not bother noting what he had to say.  Only Gladstone’s pontifications were printed.  Imagine a movie review of “Duck Soup” but only Margaret Dumont is mentioned.

If the Times preferred Gladstone to Disraeli, the newspaper had a liberal bias even then.

p.s.  If you would like to read the article (and how can you resist), click on this link and go to page 26.  http://www.dixonvalve.com/fgal/publications/BOSS_fallwinter09_10_DIXBOS.pdf

October 24, 1648:  The Treaty of Westphalia

If you haven’t already sent a sympathy card to the Hapsburgs, at least offer to buy them lunch.

As you know (but I will belabor), the Treaty of Westphalia ended The Thirty Years War. The War basically was a simple, religious affair: Catholics slaughtered Protestants and Protestants returned the favor. Both sides proved very enthusiastic. Armies were paid by what they could pillage–and it is always easier to rob the dead. Central Europe was reduced to a charnel house. At least one third of the population was killed.

It looked like the Catholics–led by the Hapsburgs–were ahead on points–when France intervened. Cardinal Richelieu did not want to see a triumphant Austria unifying the German states. The brilliant statesman may have had premonitions of 1870, 1914 and 1940. Relegating his religious preferences behind his national interests, Richelieu brought France to the Protestant side, and that led the war to a stalemate.

The Hapsburgs finally realized that there were too many Protestants to kill and who certainly were not cooperating in the effort. So, Catholics and Protestants agreed to stop slaughtering each other. England did not sign the treaty, however, so Catholics were still fair game in Scotland and Ireland.

And Holland was finally granted independence from Spain. Of course, the Dutch hadn’t bothered to wait and had been governing their country for more forty years. It just took that long for Spain to notice the obvious.

The Protestants of Germany were saved. Austria was frustrated and spent. And now the greatest power on continental Europe was France. Richelieu did not live to see his triumph, succumbing to natural causes in 1643.  There has yet to be a proposal to grant him sainthood.

Learning of Richelieu’s death Pope Urban VII concluded, “If there is a God, he will pay dearly for his conduct.  If there is no God, then he was truly an admirable man.”

October 14, 1066:  Normandy’s Duke William the Bastard improves his nickname.  Furthermore, the imposition of Norwegian-accented French spares the English language from having umlauts and sounding like a summer stock production of “The Student Prince”.

Every word has a story. We might assume that the English language emerged fully developed from a business lunch between William Shakespeare and Noah Webster. In fact, language evolves. Words migrate from one culture to another, and their meanings mutate and deviate over time. French is based on Latin slang, and English is a complete linguistic hodgepodge: the ripe fermentation of barbaric German, Norwegian-accented French, second-hand Greek and punchlines in Yiddish. Our language is an ongoing odyssey.

Two thousand years ago, there was no England or an English language. Britain and the Germanic dialect of the Angle-Saxons had yet to meet. The language of Roman Britain would have sounded like a Welshman singing Verdi. Fifteen hundred years ago, the Angle and Saxons, not wanting to miss out on the fall of the Roman Empire, invaded Britain and imposed themselves and their Germanic language on the Romanised-Celtic populace. The linguistic consequence is called Old English and would sound like a Welshman gargling.

Of course, as everyone should know, in 1066 the Normans conquered England and grafted their smorgasbord French onto English. That hybrid is called Middle English. Its vocabulary was a scramble of French and German, and the language still had that Germanic tendency to elongate words by pronouncing each and every letter as a s-y-l-l-a-b-l-e. Perhaps the Bubonic Plague gave people the incentive to speak quickly; for whatever reason, five hundred years ago, Modern-recognizable-English had evolved. If thou met William Shakespeare, thou could understandeth him. However, his accent might sound like an audition for The Beverly Hillbillies, and he would be just as dumbfounded by the alien syntax from your mouth.

And the evolution continues. Right, dude?

October 9, 1003:  Leif Ericson Lands in North America and Earns a Holiday in Minnesota

The Vikings are notorious for this vices, but they apparently possessed one fatal virtue: hygiene. Whether it was their fondness for saunas or the antiseptic cold of Greenland, the Vikings’ cleanliness ruined their chance to colonize North America. Starting with Leif Ericson in 1000, the Norse attempted to settle “Vinland.” Of course, the original inhabitants objected but the Vikings were never shy about other people’s property. Beyond their extrovert personalities, the Norse also had the tactical advantages of iron and steel armaments. The native American arsenal was still in the stone age. Nonetheless, the sheer number of the natives (Skraeling was the Viking name for them) made the prospect of slaughtering them rather demoralizing. And the Vikings’ damn hygiene eliminated the most effective weapon for depopulation: disease.

The Norse had nothing to infect their opponents, not a single small pox to share. Even their livestock was healthy. The “Skraelings” would have had no resistance to European germs; measles would have been a fatal plague. The Vikings then could have had Vinland to themselves. Just imagine how history would have changed: North America could have been one vast Minnesota. But the Vikings were too clean to succeed.

The Skraelings had a 500-year reprieve before they were introduced to the Spanish, French, English and small pox.

The Historical Significance of October 7th:

Today is Karen Finerman’s birthday.  I suppose that you are more inclined to pity anyone married to me; worse, God seems to agree.  He scheduled Yom Kippur today.  So much for the birthday cake….

Of slightly less historical importance, this is also the anniversary of battle of Lepanto.  In 1571 Venice was ruefully learning that crime doesn’t pay for more than three centuries.  All that valuable Byzantine territory that Venice had seized in the Fourth Crusade was now being reclaimed by the new empire in Constantinople.  The Ottomans had begun their conquest of Cyprus, so the Venetians begged help from the Pope, who begged help from the Spanish, who never refused any charity that involved killing non-Catholics.

The Spanish, the Venetians, along with the Genoese, amassed a fleet of some 200 ships, and the Pope provided a nifty name for the alliance:  the Holy League.  Emboldened by God’s’ product placement, this fleet embarked for western Greece where an equally large Turkish fleet was awaiting it.  The Turks, sailing oar-powered ships, and armed with archers and catapults, were more than ready to fight the battle of Actium.  The Latino gang came to the rumble with muskets and cannons.

Guess who won?  Yes, Christendom was saved from the Turks…except

1.  The loss of the Turkish fleet did not seriously impede the conquest of Cyprus.  The Turks completed the conquest of the island by 1573. Sultan Selim II compared his lost fleet at Lepanto to a singed beard:  “It will grow back.”

2.  Half of Christendom was actually rooting for the Turks.  Who would the Protestants prefer?  Philip II wanted to burn them alive.  Selim would have been content with the infidel tax.  But the Ottoman Fan Club was not solely comprised of Protestants.  Just scan the roster of the Holy League, and you should notice a major omission.  Mais oui, the French were pro-Turkish as well.  I am not suggesting that Catherine de Medici was belly-dancing in the Louvre; France just hated the Hapsburgs more than it liked Catholicism.  In fact, the French and the Turks had an alliance dating back to the 1520s and would last until 1798, when Napoleon was tactless enough to invade Egypt.  (He was surprised that the Turks seemed to mind his attack on their richest province.)

With the Spanish triumph at Lepanto, Philip II was more devout and unbearable than ever.  Deprived of the distracting Turkish threat, an intimidated France now would comply with Spain’s prejudices.  The next year’s St. Bartholomew’s Day would be memorable for the Huguenots.  Philip also resumed his crusade to make the Dutch into votive candles.

But the Dutch successfully resisted, with the none too covert aid of a large Protestant island to the West.  (Confronted with Spanish protests, the island’s sovereign averred her innocence, lying in superb iambic pentameter.)  Exasperated, Philip decided to conquer that island and amassed an invasion fleet–with many of the same ships that triumphed at Lepanto.  He did not quite anticipate two problems, however.  The English were better sailors than the Turks, and the North Sea is much rougher than the Mediterranean.

So the battle of Lepanto had no real lasting effect unless you were a Turkish widow or a Protestant cinder.  Otherwise, it amounted only to 17 years of Spain’s obnoxious supremacy.

October 1, 331 B.C.:  Alexander the Great Justifies His Adjective

Darius III no longer underestimated Alexander the Great.  He had lost almost half his empire by doing so.  In 334 B.C., when the 22 year-old Macedonian invaded the Persian Empire, the Persians first tried to stop him with the equivalent of the Asia Minor National Guard.  And that is how they lose Asia Minor.  The following year, the Persians mustered an army twice the size of Alexander’s.  And that is how they lost Syria, Judea and Egypt.

It turned out that mere numbers were no strategy against Alexander.  The Persian army was little more than a badly equipped mob.  Facing the better-armed and brilliantly led Greeks, the Persians had one of two choices.  To patiently wait to be impaled by the Macedonian phalanx or run, hoping that the Greek cavalry would tired of slaughtering them.  (That was the one advantage of Persian numbers.)    Darius, himself, had proved an embarrassment.  He led the army into battle but was foremost in the retreat, even abandoning his family to the Greeks.

Over the next two years Alexander toured the provinces of his new empire.  Some of the Persian governors and local populations attempted to resist.  Megalomaniacs hate to take no for an answer, and Alexander was not adverse to massacres.  What was left of the populations of Tyre and Gaza was sold into slavery.  Perhaps the people of Egypt heard; they decided to proclaim Alexander a God.  Megalomaniacs like that.

In the meantime, Darius prepared for his next battle.  He summoned the forces from the remaining half of his empire.  We can only guess the total.  Ancient historians, either employees or fans of Alexander, said that Darius had amassed one million men.  Modern historians have ventured estimates ranging from 100,000 to 250,000 men.   However, there is a consensus that this army was largely composed of cavalry.  Unlike the infantry, the Persian horsemen were only slightly inferior to the Greeks; a three-to-one advantage would make up for any disparity.  Furthermore, Darius chose a battle site that would allow his 40,000 horsemen, 200 chariots and 15 elephants to dominate the field: the plains of Gaugamela.

The battle was on this day in 331 B.C.  For all of Darius’ careful preparation, there was one flaw.  Alexander was still a military genius who could perceive any weakness in the Persian array and immediately improvise a devastating exploitation of it.  Furthermore, Alexander knew the panicky personality of Darius.  The Macedonian began the battle by ordering some of his cavalry to threaten the left wing of the Persian force.  The Persian cavalry set out after them and inadvertently exposed their king to a frontal assault.  Alexander considered that an invitation;  his best cavalry had been held in reserve for such an opportunity.  When Darius saw the Macedonian elite about to ride him down, guess what he did?

The Persian infantry joined in the panic.  The Persian cavalry thought it was winning the skirmish only to discover the battle was over.  Darius survived the battle but his reign did not.  No one wanted to follow him anymore.  The surviving Persian governors decided that Alexander would make a better Shah, and those who promptly grovelled found the young Macedonian to be quite generous.  Gods can afford to be.

As for Darius he lasted another year, a wandering fugitive, until his last remaining courtiers got tired of being loyal.  Alexander gave him a royal burial.

Oh for the good old days, when megalomaniac tyrants had a sense of style.  Who wouldn’t want to be under Mussolini’s thumb, knowing those brass knuckles were from Bulgari!  And Saddam Hussein’s palaces were obvious homages to MGM classics; at least one of his wives had to be Norma Shearer.  But Muammar Qaddafi evidently shops at Target.  Perusing the architecture and decor of his homes, the New York Times was dismayed by his tackiness.

Given Colonel Qaddafi’s noted flamboyance, the residences of the House of Qaddafi were not quite as grand as people might have supposed.

They lacked the faux grandeur of Saddam Hussein’s marbled palaces. There are no columns that bear the colonel’s initials, or fists cast to resemble his hands or river-fed moats with voracious carp.

His overt support of terrorism apparently is not so abhorent as his interior decorating.  The man’s style is “Seventies”.  His epauletted wardrobe may have been “Sergeant Pepper” but his living room was “The Wonder Years.”  Qaddafi probably had kept plastic covers on his nuclear reactors.

The New York Times is so disappointed in him.

This Week in History:

August 28:  http://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/08/28/a-fool-and-his-empire/

August 29:  http://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/08/29/cheeri-opium-2/

August 30:  http://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2010/08/30/fanny-get-your-gun/

August 31:  http://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/08/31/in-praise-of-impotence-2/

September 1:  http://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/09/01/2529/

September 2:  http://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/09/02/the-regicide-regatta/

September 3:  http://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/09/03/quite-original-sin/

Piss en Scene

If Gerard Depardieu urinated in the aisle of an airplane, at least it was in character.  He exudes an enthusiastic vulgarity in his roles, and you would expect his hygiene to be as ripe as his acting.  Yet, the great French stars of the past would have shown more finesse.  Under similar stress, Maurice Chevalier, Charles Boyer and Louis Jourdan would have asked for champagne flutes.  Alain Delon would have requested a brandy snifter, although he seemed the type to fling the contents in your face.  Jean-Paul Belmondo would want a glass de “whiskey”.  Yves Montand would settle for an empty bottle of vin ordinaire but Philippe Noiret would prefer a better vintage for his vintage.  And Jean Gabin?  Well, he wouldn’t even be on an airplane but working his passage on a freighter.

This week in history:

August 21:  http://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2008/08/21/if-only-lincoln-and-douglas-debated-today/

August 22:  http://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/08/22/the-karl-roves-of-tudor-england-2/

August 23:  http://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/08/23/history-rumors-and-hollywood/

August 24:  http://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/08/24/the-best-laid-plans-of-mice-and-queen-mothers/

August 25: http://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/08/25/caviar-preemptor-2/

August 26:  http://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/08/26/von-clueless-on-war/

August 27:  http://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/08/27/when-in-rome-2/

On August 15, 1769 Letizia Buonaparte gave birth to her second son.  The nationality of the Corsican infant had been determined by the vagaries of diplomacy.  His older brother Guiseppe had been born in 1768 a citizen of Genoa.  But Corsica had changed masters and Napoleone was a French subject.  Corsicans, however, always regarded themselves as a law unto themselves.  Indeed, Corsica’s chief industry seemed to be banditry; and perhaps Napoleone would become its greatest practitioner–ransacking all of Europe.  He may have been born French, but he did not learn that language until he was 10 and never never lost his Corsican accent.  (At the time, Corsican would have sounded like abysmal Italian and worse French; today it is just the opposite.)

His father Paolo had proved an accommodating collaborator to the French authorities, and the government rewarded Papa Buonoparte with steady employment and a scholarship for young Napoleone.  (Of course, the boy would have to adopt a more Gallic spelling for his name.)  The boy was sent to the military academy at Brienne, France.  His education there was determined by his social standing.  A scholarship boy lacked the aristocratic pedigree required of an officer in the infantry or cavalry.  Artillery was considered more menial, so Napoleon was trained for that and received his lieutenant’s commission in 1785.

But the caste system that fettered Napoleon’s early career was about to be overthrown.  France was an 18th-century society constrained by a 14th-century monarchy.  Decades of frustration and misrule finally led to a revolution in 1789.  The fumbling, obtuse Louis XVI refused the popular demand for a constitutional monarchy.  At the urgings of his queen Marie Antoinette, Louis appealed to his fellow monarchs to rescue him from his own people.  In response, a coalition of German states invaded France in 1792.  Learning of Louis’ support for the invasion, France saw no further need for a constitutional monarchy or a breathing monarch.  Then the rest of Europe declared war on this regicidal France.

It would seem an uneven fight, and it was–because France had a young officer named Bonaparte.  He was a brigadier general at 24, conqueror of Italy at 26, dictator of France at 30, Emperor by 35, master of Europe at 37; and his descent proved even faster.  Russia, Elba, Waterloo, St. Helena’s, death at 51.

Two centuries later, he remains a legend.  To most of Europe, he is a tyrant–the Bogeyman of Britain and the Anti-Christ in Spain.  Yet, Italy and Poland remember him as a liberator.  And he is France’s most contentious hero.  The liberals cannot decide whether he championed the French Revolution or betrayed it.  The conservatives deplore him personally but love the glory he bestowed on France.  And none would deny his charisma.

The poet Alfred de Musset described the mesmerizing hold of Napoleon on France and history:

The life of Europe was centered in one man; all were trying to fill their lungs with the air which he had breathed. Every year France presented that man with three hundred thousand of her youth; it was the tax paid to Caesar, and, without that troop behind him, he could not follow his fortune. It was the escort he needed that he might traverse the world, and then perish in a little valley in a deserted island, under the weeping willow.

Never had there been so many sleepless nights as in the time of that man; never had there been seen, hanging over the ramparts of the cities, such a nation of desolate mothers; never was there such a silence about those who spoke of death. And yet there was never such joy, such life, such fanfares of war, in all hearts. Never was there such pure sunlight as that which dried all this blood. God made the sun for this man, they said, and they called it the Sun of Austerlitz. But he made this sunlight himself with his ever-thundering cannons which dispelled all clouds but those which succeed the day of battle.

It was this air of the spotless sky, where shone so much glory, where glistened so many swords, that the youth of the time breathed. They well knew that they were destined to the hecatomb; but they regarded Murat as invulnerable, and the emperor had been seen to cross a bridge where so many bullets whistled that they wondered if he could die.

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.