CHAPTER XXV.
"FATHER PARIS FOR MOTHER MOSCOW."
"Lay the sword on his breast; there's no spot on its blade
In whose cankering breath his bright laurels will fade:
It was taken up first at humanity's call;
It was sheathed with sweet mercy when glory was all."
THE passion and the tumult, the glory and the agony of the next day will live in History as long as History herself lives to depict the scenes of blood and violence which earth has witnessed. No battle in that terrible war was more hotly or more obstinately contested than the battle of Paris; although it ought to be remembered that it was not the men of Paris who contested every inch of ground with the Allies, but the corps of Marmont and Mortier, old soldiers of Napoleon, the National Guard, and the youths of the Ecole Polytechnique.
The sun that shone upon that long day's conflict was already near its setting when Ivan, with the rest of the Chevalier Guard, was still straining every nerve to drive the French from the Butte de Chaumont, an important height commanding the city. It is not enough to say that he fought with gallantry: all did that. He fought as one whose whole soul was in the work—who was conscious of no thought, no impulse, no resolve save that Paris must be won for the Czar that day. His horse was at a gallop; his red sabre was driving the fleeing French before him; the crest of the hill was reached; the city lay outspread beneath his feet;—when a well-aimed bullet grazed
