John Seraph Peter Flambeau, called Flambart-- "The glowing coal"--ex-sergeant grenadier.

Mamma from Picardy; Papa a Breton.

Joined at fourteen, two Germinal, year Three.

Baptised, Marengo; got my corporal's stripes The fifteenth Fructidor, year Twelve. Silk hose And sergeant's cane, steeped in my tears of joy.

July fourteenth, year Eighteen hundred and nine, At Schonbrunn, for the Guards were here to serve The sacred person of your Majesty.

Sixteen years' service, seen sixteen campaigns, Fought Austerlitz, fought Eylau, Somo-Siera, Eckmuhl, Essling, Wagram, Smolensk, and so forth.

Thirty-two feats of arms, a lot of wounds, And only fought for glory and dry bread.

MARMONT.

Surely you will not listen to him thus?

THE DUKE.

No, sir, I will not listen thus, but standing!

MARMONT.

My Lord!

THE DUKE.

For in the volume whose sublime Chapters are headed with proud capitals You are the t.i.tles and you catch the eye; But these--these are the thousand little letters-- You're nought, without the black and humble army That goes to make a page of history.

Oh, my brave Flambeau, painter of my soldiers, To think while you were near me all this month, I only looked upon you as a spy.

FLAMBEAU.

Oh, our acquaintance dates much further back!

THE DUKE.

How so?

FLAMBEAU.

Can't you recall me?

THE DUKE.

Not at all.

FLAMBEAU.

One Thursday in the garden of Saint Cloud Marshal Duroc stood with a maid-in-waiting, Watching your Highness at his nurse's breast-- Its whiteness, I remember, startled me.

Marshal Duroc exclaimed, "Come here!" I came.

But there were lots of things to make me nervous: The Imperial child, the gorgeous rosy sleeves The Maid of honor wore, Duroc, the breast-- In short, the tuft was shivering on my bearskin; So much so that your Highness noticed it.

You gazed upon it pensively: what was it?

And while you hailed it with a milky laugh You seemed uncertain which to admire the more About this moving scarlet miracle: Its motion, or the fact that it was scarlet.

Suddenly, while I stooped, your little hands Began lo pull the precious tuft about.

Seeing my plight, the Marshal cried severely, "Don't interfere"--I didn't interfere; But having sunk upon my knees I heard The nurse, the marshal, and the lady laughing.

And when I rose the gra.s.s was strewn with red: As for my tuft, that was a beardless wire.

"I'll sign an order," said Duroc, "for two."

Back to my quarters then I strutted radiant; "You there! hulloa!" exclaimed the Adjutant, "Who's plucked you?" And I cried: "The King of Rome!"

And that is how one Thursday morn I met Your Majesty. Your Highness has developed.

THE DUKE.

No, not developed: that is why I grieve.

My "Majesty" has shrivelled to my "Highness."

MARMONT.

[_To_ FLAMBEAU.]

But since the Empire fell, what have you done?

FLAMBEAU.

I think I've acted like a decent beggar.

I know Fournier and Solignac. In May Eighteen-sixteen Didier and Sarloveze Conspire and fail. I see the child Miard Perish, and David the old man, and weep; They'd have beheaded me, but I am missing.

Good. I come back to Paris with an alias; I smash a footstool on a royal guard Because he'd trodden on my favorite corn.

I take the chair at noisy drinking bouts, Spend thirty pence a month. I nurse a hope That in the Var that Other still may land.

I swagger in a Bonapartist hat And call whoever stares at me a vampire.

I fight some thirty duels. I conspire At Beziers; fail. They'd have beheaded me, But I am missing. Good. I join at once The plot at Lyons. All are seized. I fly.

They'd have beheaded me, but I am missing.

So I come back to Paris, where, by chance, I find myself mixed up in the Bazaar plot.

Lefevre-Desnouettes is in America.

I join him there. "What's up, my General?"

Says I. Says he, "Come back." We start; we're wrecked.

My General's drowned, but I know how to swim; And so I swim, bewailing Desnouettes.

Good. Very good. Sun--azure waves--and sea-mews.

A ship. They fish me up. I land in time To be among the plotters of Saumur.

We fail again. They'd have beheaded me, But I am missing. So I make for Greece, To rub the rust off, thrashing dirty Turks.

One morning in July I'm back in France.

I see them heaping paving stones. I help.

I fight. At night the tricolor is hoisted.

Instead of the while banner of the King, But as I think there still is something lacking To crown the point of that disloyal staff; You know--the golden thing that beats its wings.

I leave, to plot in the Romagna. Fail.

A relative of yours--

THE DUKE.

Named?

FLAMBEAU.

Camerata-- Makes me her fencing master--

THE DUKE.