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understands the thing," said he. The Elysée, which prides itself upon its
refinement, only half-accepted Saint-Arnaud. His bloody side had caused
his vulgar side to be condoned. Saint-Arnaud was brave, violent, and yet
timid; he had the audacity of a gold-laced veteran and the awkwardness of
a man who had formerly been "down upon his luck." We saw him one day in
the tribune, pale, stammering, but daring. He had a long bony face, and
a distrust-inspiring jaw. His theatrical name was Florivan. He was a
strolling player transformed into a trooper. He died Marshal of France.
An ill-omened figure.
The two colonels who awaited Saint-Arnaud in the anteroom were two
business-like men, both leaders of those decisive regiments which at
critical times carry the other regiments with them, according to their
instructions, into glory, as at Austerlitz, or into crime, as on the
Eighteenth Brumaire. These two officers belonged to what Morny called
"the cream of indebted and free-living colonels." We will not mention
their names here; one is dead, the other is still living; he will
recognize himself. Besides, we have caught a glimpse of them in the
first pages of this book.
One, a man of thirty-eight, was cunning, dauntless, ungrateful, three
qualifications for success. The Duc d'Aumale had saved his life in the
Aurés. He was then a young captain. A ball had pierced his body; he fell
into a thicket; the Kabyles rushed up to cut off and carry away his
head, when the Duc d'Aumale arriving with two officers, a soldier, and a
bugler, charged the Kabyles and saved this captain. Having saved him, he
loved him. One was grateful, the other was not. The one who was grateful
was the deliverer. The Duc d'Aumale was pleased with this young captain
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