Publisher's Synopsis
A blurring rain fell upon Paris that day; a rain so fine and cold that it penetrated the soles ofmen's shoes and their hearts alike, a dispiriting drizzle through which the pale, acrid smokeof innumerable wood fires faltered upward from the clustering chimney-pots, only to berent into fragments and beaten down upon the glistening tiles of the mansard roofs. Thewide asphalts reflected the horses and carriages and trains and pedestrians in formsgrotesque, zigzagging, flitting, amusing, like a shadow-play upon a wrinkled, wind-blowncurtain. The sixteenth of June. To Fitzgerald there was something electric in the date, atingle of that ecstasy which frequently comes into the blood of a man to whom the romanceof a great battle is more than its history or its effect upon the destinies of human beings.Many years before, this date had marked the end to a certain hundred days, the eclipse of asun more dazzling than Rome, in the heyday of her august Caesars, had ever known: Waterloo. A little corporal of artillery; from a cocked hat to a crown, from Corsica to St.Helena: Napoleon.Fitzgerald, as he pressed his way along the Boulevard des Invalides, his umbrella swayingand snapping in the wind much like the sail of a derelict, could see in fancy that celebratedfield whereon this eclipse had been supernally prearranged. He could hear the boom ofcannon, the thunder of cavalry, the patter of musketry, now thick, now scattered, and againnot unlike the subdued rattle of rain on the bulging silk careening before him. He held thehandle of the umbrella under his arm, for the wind had a temper mawling and destructive, and veered into the Place Vauban. Another man, coming with equal haste from the oppositedirection, from the entrance of the tomb itself, was also two parts hidden behind anumbrella. The two came together with a jolt as sounding as that of two old crusaders in afriendly joust. Instantly they retreated, lowering their shield
