the town where some divisions of the French army (and among them

the Polish corps of Prince Joseph Poniatowski), jammed hopelessly
in the streets, were being simply exterminated by the troops of

the Allied Powers. When asked what it was like in there, Mr.
Nicholas B. muttered only the word "Shambles." Having delivered

his message to the Prince he hastened away at once to render an
account of his mission to the superior who had sent him. By that

time the advance of the enemy had enveloped the town, and he was
shot at from houses and chased all the way to the river-bank by a

disorderly mob of Austrian Dragoons and Prussian Hussars. The
bridge had been mined early in the morning, and his opinion was

that the sight of the horsemen converging from many sides in the
pursuit of his person alarmed the officer in command of the

sappers and caused the premature firing of the charges. He had
not gone more than two hundred yards on the other side when he

heard the sound of the fatal explosions. Mr. Nicholas B.
concluded his bald narrative with the word "Imbecile," uttered

with the utmostdeliberation. It testified to his indignation at
the loss of so many thousands of lives. But his phlegmatic

physiognomy lighted up when he spoke of his only wound, with
something resembling satisfaction. You will see that there was

some reason for it when you learn that he was wounded in the
heel. "Like his Majesty the Emperor Napoleon himself," he

reminded his hearers, with assumed indifference. There can be no
doubt that the indifference was assumed, if one thinks what a

very distinguished sort of wound it was. In all the history of
warfare there are, I believe, only three warriors publicly known

to have been wounded in the heel--Achilles and Napoleon--demigods
indeed--to whom the familial piety of an unworthydescendant adds

the name of the simple mortal, Nicholas B.
The Hundred Days found Mr. Nicholas B. staying with a distant

relative of ours, owner of a small estate in Galicia. How he got
there across the breadth of an armed Europe, and after what

adventures, I am afraid will never be known now. All his papers
were destroyed shortly before his death; but if there was among

them, as he affirmed, a concise record of his life, then I am
pretty sure it did not take up more than a half sheet of foolscap

or so. This relative of ours happened to be an Austrian officer
who had left the service after the battle of Austerlitz. Unlike

Mr. Nicholas B., who concealed his decorations, he liked to
display his honourabledischarge in which he was mentioned as un

schreckbar (fearless) before the enemy. No conjunction could
seem more unpromising, yet it stands in the family tradition that

these two got on very well together in their rural solitude.
When asked whether he had not been sorely tempted during the

Hundred Days to make his way again to France and join the service
of his beloved Emperor, Mr. Nicholas B. used to mutter: "No

money. No horse. Too far to walk."
The fall of Napoleon and the ruin of national hopes affected

adversely the character of Mr. Nicholas B. He shrank from
returning to his province. But for that there was also another

reason. Mr. Nicholas B. and his brother--my maternal grand
father--had lost their father early, while they were quite

children. Their mother, young still and left very well off,
married again a man of great charm and of an amiable disposition,

but without a penny. He turned out an affectionate" target="_blank" title="a.亲爱的">affectionate and careful
stepfather; it was unfortunate, though, that while directing the

boys' education and forming their character by wise counsel, he
did his best to get hold of the fortune by buying and selling

land in his own name and investing capital in such a manner as to
cover up the traces of the real ownership. It seems that such

practices can be successful if one is charming enough to dazzle
one's own wife permanently, and brave enough to defy the vain

terrors of public opinion. The critical time came when the elder
of the boys on attaining his majority, in the year 1811, asked

for the accounts and some part at least of the inheritance" target="_blank" title="n.继承(物)；遗传；遗产">inheritance to
begin life upon. It was then that the stepfather declared with

calm finality that there were no accounts to render and no
property to inherit. The whole fortune was his very own. He was

very good-natured about the young man's misapprehension of the
true state of affairs, but, of course, felt obliged to maintain

his position firmly. Old friends came and went busily, voluntary
mediators appeared travelling on most horrible roads from the

most distant corners of the three provinces; and the Marshal of
the Nobility (ex-officio guardian of all well-born orphans)

called a meeting of landowners to "ascertain in a friendly way
how the standing" target="_blank" title="n.误解；隔阂">misunderstanding between X and his stepsons had arisen

and devise proper measures to remove the same." A deputation to
that effect visited X, who treated them to excellent wines, but

absolutely refused his ear to their remonstrances. As to the
proposals for arbitration he simply laughed at them; yet the

whole province must have been aware that fourteen years before,
when he married the widow, all his visible fortune consisted

(apart from his social qualities) in a smart four-horse turnout
with two servants, with whom he went about visiting from house to

house; and as to any funds he might have possessed at that time
their existence could only be inferred from the fact that he was

very punctual in settling his modest losses at cards. But by the
magic power of stubborn and constantassertion, there were found

presently, here and there, people who mumbled that surely "there
must be some thing in it." However, on his next name-day (which

he used to celebrate by a great three days' shooting party), of
all the invited crowd only two guests turned up, distant

neighbours of no importance; one notoriously a fool, and the
other a very pious and honest person, but such a passionate" target="_blank" title="a.易动情的；易怒的">passionate lover

of the gun that on his own confession he could not have refused
an invitation to a shooting party from the devil himself. X met

this manifestation of public opinion with the serenity of an
unstained conscience. He refused to be crushed. Yet he must

have been a man of deep feeling, because, when his wife took
openly the part of her children, he lost his beautiful

tranquillity, proclaimed himself heartbroken, and drove her out
of the house, neglecting in his grief to give her enough time to

pack her trunks.
This was the beginning of a lawsuit, an abominablemarvel of

chicane, which by the use of every legal subterfuge was made to
last for many years. It was also the occasion for a display of

much kindness and sympathy. All the neighbouring houses flew
open for the reception of the homeless. Neither legal aid nor

material assistance in the prosecution of the suit was ever
wanting. X, on his side, went about shedding tears publicly over

his stepchildren's ingratitude and his wife's blind infatuation;
but as at the same time he displayed great cleverness in the art

of concealing material documents (he was even suspected of having
burned a lot of historically interesting family papers) this

scandalous litigation had to be ended by a compromise lest worse
should befall. It was settled finally by a surrender, out of the

disputed estate, in full satisfaction of all claims, of two
villages with the names of which I do not intend to trouble my

readers. After this lame and impotent conclusion neither the
wife nor the stepsons had anything to say to the man who had

presented the world with such a successful example of self-help
based on character, determination, and industry; and my

great-grandmother, her health completely broken down, died a
couple of years later in Carlsbad. Legally secured by a decree

in the possession of his plunder, X regained his wonted serenity,
and went on living in the neighbourhood in a comfortable style

and in apparent peace of mind. His big shoots were fairly well
attended again. He was never tired of assuring people that he

bore no grudge for what was past; he protested loudly of his
constantaffection for his wife and stepchildren. It was true,

he said, that they had tried to strip him as naked as a Turkish
saint in the decline of his days; and because he had defended

himself from spoliation, as anybody else in his place would have
done, they had abandoned him now to the horrors of a solitary old

age. Nevertheless, his love for them survived these cruel blows.
And there might have been some truth in his protestations. Very

soon he began to make overtures of friendship to his eldest
stepson, my maternalgrandfather; and when these were

peremptorily rejected he went on renewing them again and again
with characteristic obstinacy. For years he persisted in his

efforts at reconciliation, promising my grandfather to execute a
will in his favour if he only would be friends again to the

extent of calling now and then (it was fairly close neighbourhood
for these parts, forty miles or so), or even of putting in an

appearance for the great shoot on the name-day. My grandfather
was an ardent lover of every sport. His temperament was as free