never to return, I have faithfully shared his fortunes, rising with his star and sinking with it also.  And yet, as I look back at my old master, I find it very difficult to say if he was a very good man or a very bad one.  I only know that he was a very great one, and that the things in which he dealt were also so great that it is impossible to judge him by any ordinary standard.  Let him rest silently, then, in his great red tomb at the Invalides, for the workman’s work is done, and the mighty hand which moulded France and traced the lines of modern Europe has crumbled into dust.  The Fates have used him, and the Fates have thrown him away, but still it lives, the memory of the little man in the grey coat, and still it moves the thoughts and actions of men.  Some have written to praise and some to blame, but for my own part I have tried to do neither one nor the other, but only to tell the impression which he made upon me in those far-off days when the Army of England lay at Boulogne, and I came back once more to my Castle of Grosbois.

THE END