In presence and in face of that antique Europe reconstructed，the features of a new France were sketched out.
The future，which the Emperor had rallied，made its entry.
On its brow it bore the star，Liberty.
The glowing eyes of all young generations were turned on it.
Singular fact！people were，at one and the same time，in love with the future，Liberty，and the past，Napoleon.
Defeat had rendered the vanquished greater.
Bonaparte fallen seemed more lofty than Napoleon erect.
Those who had triumphed were alarmed.England had him guarded by Hudson Lowe，and France had him watched by Montchenu.
His folded arms became a source of uneasiness to thrones.
Alexander called him'my sleeplessness.'
This terror was the result of the quantity of revolution which was contained in him.
That is what explains and excuses Bonapartist liberalism.This phantom caused the old world to tremble.
The kings reigned，but ill at their ease，with the rock of Saint Helena on the horizon.
While Napoleon was passing through the death struggle at Longwood，the sixty thousand men who had fallen on the field of Waterloo were quietly rotting，and something of their peace was shed abroad over the world.
The Congress of Vienna made the treaties in 1815，and Europe called this the Restoration.
This is what Waterloo was.
But what matters it to the Infinite？all that tempest，all that cloud，that war，then that peace？
All that darkness did not trouble for a moment the light of that immense Eye before which a grub skipping from one blade of grass to another equals the eagle soaring from belfry to belfry on the towers of Notre Dame.
BOOK FIRST.-WATERLOO
XIX THE BATTLE-FIELD AT NIGHT
Let us return——it is a necessity in this book——to that fatal battle-field.
On the 18th of June the moon was full.
Its light favored Blucher's ferocious pursuit，betrayed the traces of the fugitives，delivered up that disastrous mass to the eager Prussian cavalry，and aided the massacre.
Such tragic favors of the night do occur sometimes during catastrophes.
After the last cannon-shot had been fired，the plain of Mont-Saint-Jean remained deserted.
The English occupied the encampment of the French；it is the usual sign of victory to sleep in the bed of the vanquished.They established their bivouac beyond Rossomme.
The Prussians，let loose on the retreating rout，pushed forward.
Wellington went to the village of Waterloo to draw up his report to Lord Bathurst.
If ever the sic vos non vobis was applicable，it certainly is to that village of Waterloo.
Waterloo took no part，and lay half a league from the scene of action.
Mont-Saint-Jean was cannonaded，Hougomont was burned，La Haie-Sainte was taken by assault，Papelotte was burned，Plancenoit was burned，La Belle-Alliance beheld the embrace of the two conquerors；these names are hardly known，and Waterloo，which worked not in the battle，bears off all the honor.
We are not of the number of those who flatter war；when the occasion presents itself，we tell the truth about it.
War has frightful beauties which we have not concealed；it has also，we acknowledge，some hideous features.
One of the most surprising is the prompt stripping of the bodies of the dead after the victory.
The dawn which follows a battle always rises on naked corpses.
Who does this？
Who thus soils the triumph？
What hideous，furtive hand is that which is slipped into the pocket of victory？What pickpockets are they who ply their trade in the rear of glory？Some philosophers——Voltaire among the number——affirm that it is precisely those persons have made the glory.
It is the same men，they say；there is no relief corps；those who are erect pillage those who are prone on the earth.
The hero of the day is the vampire of the night.
One has assuredly the right，after all，to strip a corpse a bit when one is the author of that corpse.For our own part，we do not think so；it seems to us impossible that the same hand should pluck laurels and purloin the shoes from a dead man.
One thing is certain，which is，that generally after conquerors follow thieves.
But let us leave the soldier，especially the contemporary soldier，out of the question.
Every army has a rear-guard，and it is that which must be blamed.Bat-like creatures，half brigands and lackeys；all the sorts of vespertillos that that twilight called war engenders；wearers of uniforms，who take no part in the fighting；pretended invalids；formidable limpers；interloping sutlers，trotting along in little carts，sometimes accompanied by their wives，and stealing things which they sell again；beggars offering themselves as guides to officers；soldiers'servants；marauders；armies on the march in days gone by，——we are not speaking of the present，——dragged all this behind them，so that in the special language they are called'stragglers.'
No army，no nation，was responsible for those beings；they spoke Italian and followed the Germans，then spoke French and followed the English.It was by one of these wretches，a Spanish straggler who spoke French，that the Marquis of Fervacques，deceived by his Picard jargon，and taking him for one of our own men，was traitorously slain and robbed on the battle-field itself，in the course of the night which followed the victory of Cerisoles.
The rascal sprang from this marauding.
The detestable maxim，Live on the enemy！produced this leprosy，which a strict discipline alone could heal.There are reputations which are deceptive；one does not always know why certain generals，great in other directions，have been so popular.Turenne was adored by his soldiers because he tolerated pillage；evil permitted constitutes part of goodness.
Turenne was so good that he allowed the Palatinate to be delivered over to fire and blood.The marauders in the train of an army were more or less in number，according as the chief was more or less severe.
Hoche and Marceau had no stragglers；Wellington had few，and we do him the justice to mention it.
