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again, and Lobau was taken. That volley of grape-shot can
be seen to-day imprinted on the ancient gable of a brick
building on the right of the road at a few minutes’ distance
before you enter Genappe. The Prussians threw themselves
into Genappe, furious, no doubt, that they were not more
entirely the conquerors. The pursuit was stupendous. Bluch-
er ordered extermination. Roguet had set the lugubrious
example of threatening with death any French grenadier
who should bring him a Prussian prisoner. Blucher out-
did Roguet. Duhesme, the general of the Young Guard,
hemmed in at the doorway of an inn at Genappe, surren-
dered his sword to a huzzar of death, who took the sword
and slew the prisoner. The victory was completed by the as-
sassination of the vanquished. Let us inflict punishment,
since we are history: old Blucher disgraced himself. This fe-
rocity put the finishing touch to the disaster. The desperate
route traversed Genappe, traversed Quatre-Bras, traversed
Gosselies, traversed Frasnes, traversed Charleroi, traversed
Thuin, and only halted at the frontier. Alas! and who, then,
was fleeing in that manner? The Grand Army.
This vertigo, this terror, this downfall into ruin of the
loftiest bravery which ever astounded history,—is that
causeless? No. The shadow of an enormous right is project-
ed athwart Waterloo. It is the day of destiny. The force which
is mightier than man produced that day. Hence the terrified
wrinkle of those brows; hence all those great souls surren-
dering their swords. Those who had conquered Europe have
fallen prone on the earth, with nothing left to say nor to do,
feeling the present shadow of a terrible presence. Hoc erat in