The sergeant of Chasseurs drew his sabre with a volley of curses.
The coachman and the valet cried and wrung their hands. Napoleon
stood with a frozen face, one foot on the step of the carriage.
And I--ah, my friends, I was magnificent! What words can I use
to do justice to my own bearing at that supreme instant of my
life? So coldly alert, so deadly cool, so clear in brain and
ready in hand. He had called me a numskull and a buffoon. How
quick and how noble was my revenge! When his own wits failed
him, it was Etienne Gerard who supplied the want.
To fight was absurd; to fly was ridiculous. The Emperor was
stout, and weary to death. At the best he was never a good
rider. How could he fly from these, the picked men of an army?
The best horseman in Prussia was among them. But I was the best
horseman in France. I, and only I, could hold my own with them.
If they were on my track instead of the Emperor's, all might
still be well. These were the thoughts which flashed so swiftly
through my mind that in an instant I had sprung from the first
idea to the final conclusion.
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