survived. At one time
everybody sang it, joyously, aloud. Then, when the Bourbons had
returned, the scarred and crippled veterans of the _Invalides_ hummed it
under their breath, while they whispered secretly to each other of the
glory of _La Belle France_, as of a beautiful dream of youth, now
gone forever.

To-day, that song rings out with power again through France, and mounts
in jubilee to the summit of the column on the Place Vendome. The bronze
visage of the emperor seems to melt into a smile as these tremulous
billows of melody go sweeping around his brow, and the Hortensias on the
queen's grave raise dreamingly their heads of bloom, in which the dews
of heaven, or the tears of the departed one, glisten like rarest gems,
and seem to look forth lovingly and listen to this ditty, which now for
France has won so holy a significance--holy because it is the
master-chant of a religion which all men and all nations should
revere--the "religion of our memories." Thus, this "_Va t'en,
Guerrier_," which France now sings, resounds over the grave of the
queen,