cupied by the troops under the command of Marshal Baraguey-d'Hilliers.
Louis-Napoleon's countenance was at all times difficult to read; I
repeat, his eyes, like those of others, may have been "the windows of
his soul," but their blinds were down most of the time. It was only at
rare intervals that the impenetrable features were lighted up by a gleam
from within, that the head, which generally inclined to the right,
became erect. On that morning, the face was even a greater blank than
usual. And yet that day, even to the fatalist he was, must have seemed a
wonderful one; for the blind goddess of fortune, the "lucky star" in
which he trusted, had never rewarded a mortal as she had rewarded him. A
few years previously, during one of his presidential journeys, he had
been hailed with enthusiasm at Strasburg, the city in which the scene
of one of his bitterest fiascos had been laid. The contrast between
those two days was startling indeed: on the one, he was hurried into a
post-chaise as a prisoner to be taken to Paris, with an almost certain
terrible fate overhanging him; on the other, he was greeted as the
saviour of France, the Imperial Crown was within his grasp. But,
startling as was this contrast, it could but have been mild compared to
that which must have presented itself to his mind that autumn morning at
Boulogne, when, a few hours later, the legions--his legions--took up
their positions from Wimereux on the right to Porsel on the left, to do
homage to the sovereign of a country which had been the most
irreconcilable foe of the founder of his house; on the very heights at
the foot of which he himself had failed to rouse the French to
enthusiasm; on the very spot where he had become the laughing-stock of
the world by his performance with that unfortunate tame eagle.

And yet, I repeat, not a gleam of pride or joy lighted up the
Sphinx-like mask. To see this man standing there unmoved amidst the
highest honours the world had to bestow, one could not help thinking of
Voltaire's condemnation of fatalism as the guiding principal of life:
"If perchance fatalism be the true doctrine, I would sooner be without
such a cruel truth."

A regiment of lancers and one of dragoons lined the route from the
landing-stage to the railway station, for in those days the trains did
not stop alongside the boats; while on the bridge crossing the Liane,
three hundred sappers, bearded like the Pard, shouldering their axes,
wearing their whi