It was becoming
plainer to me every hour that I had a mystery all of my own to solve.
And Gretchen was the only one to solve it.
I shall never forget that night under the chestnuts, on the bank of the
wide white river. The leaves were gossiping among themselves; they had
so much to talk about; and then, they knew so much! Had not they and
their ancestors filtered the same moonbeams, century on century? Had
not their ancestors heard the tramp of the armies, the clash of the
sabre, the roar of the artillery? Had not the hand of autumn and the
hand of death marked them with the crimson sign? Ah, the leaves! It
is well to press them in books when they themselves have such fine
stories to tell.
"Gretchen," said I, echoing my thoughts, "had I been born a hundred
years ago I must have been a soldier. Napoleon was a great warrior."
"So was Bluecher, since it was he who helped overcome the little
Corsican."
The Germans will never forgive Napoleon.
"But war is a terrible thing," went on Gretchen.
"Yes, but it is a great educator; it teaches the vanquished how little
they know.
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