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Doyle, Arthur Conan, Sir, 1859-1930

"Uncle Bernac A Memory of the Empire"

Many had gone into the side rooms,
where they had formed tables for whist and for vingt-et-un. For my own
part I was quite entertained by watching the people, the beautiful
women, the handsome men, the bearers of names which had been heard of in
no previous generation, but which now rung round the world. Immediately
in front of me were Ney, Lannes, and Murat chatting together and
laughing with the freedom of the camp. Of the three, two were destined
to be executed in cold blood, and the third to die upon the
battle-field, but no coming shadow ever cast a gloom upon their cheery,
full-blooded lives.
A small, silent, middle-aged man, who looked unhappy and ill at ease,
had been leaning against the wall beside me. Seeing that he was as
great a stranger as myself, I addressed some observation to him, to
which he replied with great good-will, but in the most execrable French.
'You don't happen to understand English?' he asked. 'I've never met one
living soul in this country who did.'
'Oh yes, I understand it very well, for I have lived most of my life
over yonder.


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