He went away to his little town firmly
convinced that this could not last. There he was informed of his
retirement from the army, and that his pension (calculated on the
scale of a colonel's rank) was made dependent on the correctness of his
conduct, and on the good reports of the police. No longer in the army!
He felt suddenly strange to the earth, like a disembodied spirit. It
was impossible to exist. But at first he reacted from sheer incredulity.
This could not be. He waited for thunder, earthquakes, natural
cataclysms; but nothing happened. The leaden weight of an irremediable
idleness descended upon General Feraud, who having no resources within
himself sank into a state of awe-inspiring hebetude. He haunted the
streets of the little town, gazing before him with lacklustre eyes,
disregarding the hats raised on his passage; and people, nudging each
other as he went by, whispered, "That's poor General Feraud. His heart
is broken. Behold how he loved the Emperor."
The other living wreckage of Napoleonic tempest clustered round General
Feraud with infinite respect.
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