Chapter 87 15 Cambronne

That most beautiful word, though it is often spoken by the French, may not be said to a French reader who wishes to be respected, for history has no room for witty words. We are willing to take the risk and break this prohibition. Therefore, among those giants there was a strange man named Cambronne. Saying that word, and then calmly die, what could be greater than this!He'd done it for his own sake, and if he survived the bullets, it wasn't his fault. The victor at Waterloo is not Napoleon in rout, nor Wellington who retreats at four o'clock, despairs at five o'clock, nor Blücher without effort, the victor at Waterloo is Cambro accept.

There is a thunderbolt, and you use that word to fight back against the thunder that strikes you, that is victory.Answer the disaster, answer the fate, lay the foundation for the future lion, and resist the heavy rain of that night, Hougoumont's wall of thieves, Oran's concave road, Grouchy's late arrival, Blücher's support, as a tomb The jest in the world, the aftermath of death, drowned the Union of Europe in the syllables of that word, dedicated to the princes the filth learned by the Caesars, combined the most vulgar words with the splendor of France, and made a The most magnificent words, clean up Waterloo with laughter and cursing, make up for Leonidas' shortcomings with Rabelais, sum up that victory with a sentence that cannot be uttered, lose territory but preserve history, and make people hear it everywhere after bleeding Lol, how grand it is.

This is an insult to Thunder.So was Aeschylus' greatness. Cambronne's word has a crackling sound, the cracking of contempt breaking through the chest, the explosion caused by too much pain.Who is the winner?Is it Wellington?no.Without Blücher, he would have been defeated long ago.Is it Blucher?no.Without Wellington in the lead, Blücher would not be able to clean up the mess.Cambronne, the passer-by at the last moment, an unknown young general, an infinitely small role in the great war, he deeply felt that the defeat was absurd, which made him doubly sad. When he was full of resentment and could not vent, others But came to make fun of him and asked him to escape!How could he not stop and curse?

There they are all, the kings of Europe, the triumphant generals, the rage-ridden gods, they have a hundred thousand victorious, and after a hundred thousand, millions more, their guns, with match-flames and gaping mouths, they The feet of Habayashi and the army, they have just overwhelmed Napoleon, and the only thing left is Cambronne, and only this earthworm is left to resist.Of course he would resist.So he was looking for a word, like looking for a sword.He was spitting all over his mouth, and that spittle was the word.In the face of that extraordinary yet ordinary victory, in the face of that victory without a victor, the man of grief and despair stood up. The spittle was not enough, since he was overwhelmed in numbers, strength, and material aspects, so he found a word, filth.We took that word down again.Say that, do that, find that word, and that's a real man.

The spirit of those great days inspired the soul of this unknown man at the moment of death.The word Waterloo that Cambronne found, like the "La Marseillaise" conceived by Rouge de Lisle, are inspired by heaven.A gust of divine wind came from the sky and moved these two people. They both came to their senses, so one sang such a remarkable song, and the other uttered that terrifying roar.Cambronne not only spat that troll-like incantation on Europe on behalf of the Empire, as that seemed insufficient; he also spat on the bygone days on behalf of the Revolution.We hear his voice, and feel in Cambronne's the legacy of the martyrs.It seemed to be Danton's conversation, and it seemed to be Kleber's lion's roar.

The Englishman heard Cambronne's word and said, "Let go!" The guns burst into flames, the hills shook, and from all those muzzles the last burst of shells spewed out like thunder, and the smoke filled the field, and they were killed. The new moonlight was faintly reflected in white, lingering in the air, and when the smoke cleared, there was nothing left.That unstoppable remnant was also annihilated, and the Habayashi Army was wiped out.All four walls of the living fort fell to the ground, among the corpses, here and there, with an occasional twitching movement; thus the French army, greater than the Roman army, died in the flooded area of ​​Mount St. John. On the soil of rain and blood, in the gloomy wheat field, that is, the area where Joseph, who is now driving the Nivelle mail car, is enjoying himself whipping his horse and whistling.