He had once been imprudent enough to
admit that he and some Belgian friends of his had...how shall we
put it?...absented themselves from the battlefield without the
permission of their superiors, and had hurriedly returned to
Brussels, being doubtless fatigued by their exertions. His little
tormentors never let him forget this. When we thought that we had
done enough French for the day, a shrill young voice would pipe
out, "Now, Moosoo, please tell us how you and all the Belgians ran
away from the Battle of Waterloo." It never failed to achieve the
desired end. "Ah! tas de petits sacripants! 'Ow dare you say dat?"
thundered the poor old gentleman, and he would go on to explain
that his and his friends' retirement was only actuated by the
desire to be the first bearers to Brussels of the news of
Wellington's great victory, and to assuage their families' very
natural anxiety as to their safety. He added, truthfully enough,
"Nos jambes courraient malgres nous." Poor M. Vansittart! He was a
gentle and a kindly old man, with traces of the eighteenth-century
courtliness of manner, and smothered in snuff.
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