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Updated: May 14, 2025
And as she spoke those words of much tenderness I again bent over her hand in salutation because I could give forth no words from my throat. "Sue, you are the real sweet thing and now notice me a bit, will you?" said my fine Mr. Buzz Clendenning with both emotion and a teasing in his voice. "I know I haven't got French manners and don't look like L'Aiglon, but I'm an affectionate rough jewel."
Yet in the end she was but an episode; fleeing from her husband in his misfortune, becoming the mistress of Count Neipperg, and letting her son l'Aiglon die in a land that was far from France. Napoleon's sister, Pauline Bonaparte, was the third woman who comes to mind when we contemplate the great Corsican's career. She, too, is an episode.
And as they sang that most wonderful song, Gouverneur Faulkner laid his arm across my shoulder, and the comfort of its strength gave to me the courage to send back all the smiles that were sent to me, as that funny Mr. Buzz Clendenning said while they seated themselves: "Gee, but L'Aiglon is the real un-hyphenated brand of old Uncle Sam, Jr."
"You'll find old Forty-Two Centimeter firing off overtime, L'Aiglon, because when the Whitworth gang got caught up on those specifications they side-stepped with another proposition and he's scouting for holes in it. Better climb the grapevine into bed and side-step him," advised Buzz to me while we waited beside our cars for the beautiful Belle and beautiful Sue.
Martin," interrupted Fiderson, with indignation, "will you kindly inform me in what way 'L'Aiglon' was 'low-down'?" "Well, sir, didn't that huntin'-lodge appointment kind of put you in mind of a camp-meetin' scandal?" returned old Tom quietly. "It did me." "But "
It is a common phrase, recurring constantly in the real if rabid eloquence of Victor Hugo, that Napoleon III. was a mere ape of Napoleon I. That is, that he had, as the politician says, in "L'Aiglon," "le petit chapeau, mais pas la tête"; that he was merely a bad imitation.
"Love's Labour's Lost" is filled with the same energy, and there it falls even more definitely into the scope of our subject, since it is a comedy in rhyme in which all men speak lyrically as naturally as the birds sing in pairing time. What the love of love is to the Shakespearean comedies, that other and more mysterious human passion, the love of death, is to "L'Aiglon."
He knew her history: wedded at nineteen to Napoleon the mother of L'Aiglon at twenty married again in unbecoming haste to Count Niepperg Nobody, with whom she had been on very intimate terms, as soon as word arrived of Napoleon's death at Saint Helena, and now raising a goodly brood of Nobodies!
I questioned him as I made a squirming under the vigor of his attack upon my hair. "When hair acts up like this we call it a cowlick in United States language. See here, L'Aiglon, old boy, this hair looks as if it had at one time been curled. Did you wear it that way in Paris?" And as he asked the question he gave that side of my hair one more vigorous sweep and stood off to admire his work.
In those fields our gallant dead lie where they fell, and where they lie the earth is dedicated to them for ever. Of the British Expeditionary Force that landed in France in August 1914 perhaps not 10 per cent remain. Like the dead heroes whose ghostly voices whispered in the ears of L'Aiglon on the field of Wagram, they haunt the plains of France.
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