L'Aiglon - LightNovelsOnl.com
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THE OLD MAN.
So he roared to us.
FLAMBEAU.
What?--So he did.
[_Pointing to the_ DUKE.]
Suppose he heard!
THE DUKE.
I hear.
THE OLD MAN.
Bah! My geraniums flourish.
FLAMBEAU.
Shouldn't wonder.
For on this spot eleven drummer-boys--
THE DUKE.
Eleven drummer-boys--?
FLAMBEAU.
I see them now!
Eleven bullet-heads, as like as peas, Between the flapping of their foolish ears, Who marched, they knew not whence, nor why, nor whither, But gayly marched and rolled their rataplan!
We used to chaff them, for their funny ways Made them the darlings of the sutler's wife.
But when they beat the charge like little rabbits-- Eleven drums with two-and-twenty sticks-- They set our bayonets thrilling with their thunder; The quivering zigzags seemed to cry aloud, "Our lightning's not in vain!"--Well, on this spot, A brazen devil hiccoughed fire and steel And took them in the flank; yes! all the eleven!
But, by the Lord! you should have seen the woman!
She gathered up her ap.r.o.n like a gleaner, And madly gleaned the little ebony drumsticks.
[_He clears his throat._]
Only to speak of it gives me a cold--!
[_He picks a red geranium._]
Here's how to make a mere geranium A ribbon of the Legion: keep one petal.
What? You look well upon my velvet lining?
[_To the_ DUKE.]
Is this what you bestowed upon me, Sire?
THE DUKE.
I gave a phantom--
FLAMBEAU.
And I wear a flower!
THE DUKE.
[_Seeing the conspirators enter._]
Those shadows--?
MARMONT.
Friends.
THE DUKE.
[_Turning._]
Marmont?
MARMONT.
Good luck, my Lord!
THE DUKE.
Why do the others stand so far away?
MARMONT.
Because they fear they may disturb your Highness, And, Sire, you are already Emperor!
THE DUKE.
The word strikes strangely on my wondering ear-- The Emperor! What Emperor is here?
This youth of twenty on the throne?
As through a cas.e.m.e.nt now myself I see Pa.s.s down the shouting street; 'tis good to be Young, and the first Napoleon's son!
All Notre Dame invades my dreaming soul, I see the incense, hear the organ roll, A nation offers up a prayer!
G.o.d! what great causes may be served by kings!
How they can love! Achieve what righteous things!
Prokesch, the Future shows too fair!
O France, who with thy blood didst write our name, With happy days I will repay the fame; I come, triumphant in my pride.
Sun on my flags; the air with shouts is rent.
The Champs Elysees, with their chestnut scent, Waft me fair welcome as I ride.
