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"Few men have lived such a beautiful life in the whirlpool of action; nobody has died a more noble death in the peace of his bed." His death was the end of Colombia. For twelve years his remains rested in Santa Marta, and then they were carried to Caracas, where they now lie in the Pantheon, between two empty coffins, that of Miranda on his right and that destined for Sucre on his left.
Unconscious artists tracing with steady hand on a background of lacquer or of porcelain traditional designs learned by heart, or transmitted to their brains by a process of heredity through thousands of years; automatic painters, whose storks are similar to those of M. Sucre, with the inevitable little rocks, or little butterflies eternally the same.
He decided to send Sucre to Lima to handle the situation there and to go, himself, to Bogota to defend his own country. He would have been unable to go to Lima immediately anyway, for he had not yet obtained permission from the Colombian government to do so.
On the 9th of December it encountered Sucre and his six thousand soldiers in the valley of Ayacucho, or "Corner of Death," where the patriot general had entrenched his army with admirable skill. The result was a total defeat for the royalists the Waterloo of Spain in South America.
Bolivar, Sucre, and everyone of note, was a hero to his own followers, and more or less a villain to the rest of the allied, yet rival, parties. As a rule these prominent leaders suffered rather than gained from the situation, since the calumnies of the period are more abundant than the laudations.
The saucer in which he mixes his ink is in itself a little gem. It is chiselled out of a piece of jade, and represents a tiny lake with a carved border imitating rockwork. On this border is a little mamma toad, also in jade, advancing as if to bathe in the little lake in which M. Sucre carefully keeps a few drops of very dark liquid.
I am even losing my Western prejudices; all my preconceived ideas are this evening evaporating and vanishing; crossing the garden I have courteously saluted M. Sucre, who was watering his dwarf shrubs and his deformed flowers; and Madame Prune appears to me a highly respectable old lady, in whose past there is nothing to criticise.
They walked along the sea-front, where the horse-trams were wont to ply before the electric cars were introduced, right away up to the north end of the promenade, until they came to the Hotel de Sucre, where they turned off to the right, up a very narrow and badly-lighted side-street, which conducted them into a part of the city very much resembling the place in Iquique into which Jim had been inveigled.
With one hand employed in averting these dangers, and the other grasping his bridle to check an untoward speed that his horse was assuming, the native of France responded as follows: Sucre! dey do make sucre in Martinique; mais mais ce nest pas one tree ah ah vat you call je voudrois que ces chemins fussent au diable vat you call steeck pour la promenade? Cane, said Elizabeth, smiling at the imprecation which the wary Frenchman supposed was understood only by himself. Oui, mamselle, cane. Yes, yes, cried Richard, cane is the vulgar name for it, but the real term is saccharum officinarum; and what we call the sugar, or hard maple, is acer saccharinum.
In their spare moments they cultivate, in little pots of gayly painted earthenware, dwarf shrubs and unheard-of flowers which are delightfully fragrant in the evening. M. Sucre is taciturn, dislikes society, and looks like a mummy in his blue cotton dress.
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