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secret of their recompense, and strutted immodestly in the
light of day, in the cynicism of riches and dignities; desert-
ers from Ligny and Quatre-Bras, in the brazenness of their
well-paid turpitude, exhibited their devotion to the monar-
chy in the most barefaced manner.
This is what floats up confusedly, pell-mell, for the year
1817, and is now forgotten. History neglects nearly all these
particulars, and cannot do otherwise; the infinity would
overwhelm it. Nevertheless, these details, which are wrong-
ly called trivial,— there are no trivial facts in humanity, nor
little leaves in vegetation,—are useful. It is of the physiog-
nomy of the years that the physiognomy of the centuries
is composed. In this year of 1817 four young Parisians ar-
ranged ‘a fine farce.’