Who conquered? Wellington?
No!
Had it not been for Blucher, he was lost. Was it Blucher?
No!
If Wellington had not begun, Blucher could not have finished.
This Cambronne, this man spending his last hour, this unknown soldier, this infinitesimal of war, realizes that here is a falsehood, a falsehood in a catastrophe, and so doubly agonizing; and at the moment when his rage is bursting forth because of it, he is offered this mockery,--life!
How could he restrain himself? Yonder are all the kings of Europe, the general''s flushed with victory, the Jupiter''s darting thunderbolts; they have a hundred thousand victorious soldiers, and back of the hundred thousand a million; their cannon stand with yawning mouths, the match is lighted; they grind down under their heels the Imperial guards, and the grand army; they have just crushed Napoleon, and only Cambronne remains,-- only this earthworm is left to protest.
He will protest.
Then he seeks for the appropriate word as one seeks for a sword.
His mouth froths, and the froth is the word.
In face of this mean and mighty victory, in face of this victory which counts none victorious, this desperate soldier stands erect.