QUATRE BRAS.

Those who have visited the field of Quatre Bras will remember that on the left of the high road, and nearly at the extremity of the Bois de Bossu, stands a large Flemish farm-house, whose high pitched roof, pointed gables, and quaint, old-fashioned chimneys, remind one of the architecture so frequently seen in Tenier’s pictures. The house, which, with its dependencies of stables, granaries, and out-houses, resembles a little village, is surrounded by a large, straggling orchard of aged fruit-trees, through which the approach from the high road leads. The interior of this quaint dwelling, like all those of its class, is only remarkable for a succession of small, dark, low-ceiled rooms, leading one into another; their gloomy aspect increased by the dark oak furniture, the heavy armories, and old-fashioned presses, carved in the grotesque taste of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Those who visit it now may mark the trace of cannon-shot here and there through the building; more than one deep crack will attest the force of the dread artillery. Still the traveller will feel struck with the rural peace and quietude of the scene; the speckled oxen that stand lowing in the deep meadows; the splash of the silvery trout as he sports in the bright stream that ripples along over its gravelly bed; the cawing of the old rooks in the tall beech-trees; but more than all, the happy laugh of children,—speak of the spot as one of retired and tranquil beauty; yet when my eyes opened upon it on the morning of the 17th of June, the scene presented features of a widely different interest. The day was breaking as the deep, full sound of the French bugles announced the reveille. Forgetful of where I was, I sprang from my bed and rushed to the window; the prospect before me at once recalled me to my recollection, and I remembered that I was a prisoner. The exciting events around left me but little time and as little inclination to think over my old misfortunes; and I watched, with all the interest of a soldier, the movement of the French troops in the orchard beneath. A squadron of dragoons, who seemed to have passed the night beside their horses, lay stretched or seated in all the picturesque groupings of a bivouac,—some already up and stirring; others leaned half listlessly upon their elbows, and looked about as if unwilling to believe the night was over; and some, stretched in deep slumber, woke not with the noise and tumult around them. The room in which I was confined looked out upon the road to Charleroi; I could therefore see the British troops; and as the French army had fallen back during the night, only an advanced guard maintaining the position, I was left to my unaided conjectures as to the fortune of the preceding day of battle. What a period of anxiety and agitation was that morning to me; what would I not have given to learn the result of the action since the moment of my capture! Stubborn as our resistance had been, we were evidently getting the worst, of it; and if the Guards had not arrived in time, I knew we must have been beaten.

I walked up and down my narrow room, tortured and agonized by my doubts, now stopping to reason over the possibilities of success, now looking from the window to try if, in the gesture and bearing of those without, I could conjecture anything that passed. Too well I knew the vaunting character of the French soldier, in defeat as in victory, to put much confidence in their bearing. While, however, I watched them with an eager eye, I heard the tramp of horsemen coming along the paved causeway. From the moment my ear caught the sound to that of their arrival at the gate of the orchard, but few minutes elapsed; their pace was indeed a severe one, and as they galloped through the narrow path that led to the farm-house, they never drew rein till they reached the porch. The party consisted of about a dozen persons whose plumed hats bespoke them staff officers; but their uniforms were concealed beneath their great-coats. As they came along the picket sprang to their feet, and the guard at the door beneath presented arms. This left no doubt upon my mind that some officer of rank was among them, and as I knew that Ney himself commanded on the preceding day, I thought it might be he. The sound of voices beneath informed me that the party occupied the room under that in which I was, and although I listened attentively I could hear nothing but the confused murmur of persons conversing together without detecting even a word. My thoughts now fell into another channel, and as I ruminated over my old position, I heard the noise of the sentry at my door as he brought his musket to the shoulder, and the next moment an officer in the uniform of the Chasseurs of the Guard entered. Bowing politely as he advanced to the middle of the room, he addressed me thus:—

“You speak French, sir?” and as I replied in the affirmative, continued:—

“Will you, then, have the goodness to follow me this way?”

Although burning with anxiety to learn what had taken place, yet somehow I could not bring myself to ask the question. A secret pride mingled with my fear that all had not gone well with us, and I durst not expose myself to hear of our defeat from the lips of an enemy. I had barely time to ask into whose presence I was about to be ushered, when with a slight smile of a strange meaning, he opened the door and introduced me into the saloon. Although I had seen at least twelve or fourteen horsemen arrive, there were but three persons in the room as I entered. One of these, who sat writing at a small table near the window, never lifted his head on my entrance, but continued assiduously his occupation. Another, a tall, fine-looking man of some sixty years or upward, whose high, bald forehead and drooping mustache, white as snow, looked in every way the old soldier of the empire, stood leaning upon his sabre; while the third, whose stature, somewhat below the middle size, was yet cast in a strong and muscular mould, stood with his back to the fire, holding on his arms the skirts of a gray surtout which he wore over his uniform; his legs were cased in the tall bottes À l’ÉcuyÈre worn by the chasseur À cheval, and on his head a low cocked hat, without plume or feather, completed his costume. There was something which, at the very moment of my entrance, struck me as uncommon in his air and bearing, so much so that when my eyes had once rested on his pale but placid countenance, his regular, handsome, but somewhat stern features, I totally forgot the presence of the others and looked only at him.

“What’s your rank, sir?” said he, hurriedly, and with a tone which bespoke command.

“I have none at present, save—”

“Why do you wear your epaulettes then, sir?” said he, harshly, while from his impatient look, and hurried gesture, I saw that he put no faith in my reply.

“I am an aide-de-camp to General Picton, but without regimental rank.”

“What was the British force under arms yesterday?”

“I do not feel at liberty to give you any information as to the number or the movements of our army.”

“Diantre! Diantre!” said he, slapping his boot with his horsewhip, “do you know what you’ve been saying there, eh? Cambronne, you heard him, did you?”

“Yes, Sire, and if your Majesty would permit me to deal with him, I would have his information, if he possess any, and that ere long, too.”

“Eh, gaillard,” said he, laughing, as he pinched the old general’s ear in jest, “I believe you, with all my heart.”

The full truth flashed upon my mind. I was in presence of the Emperor himself. As, however, up to this moment I was unconscious of his presence, I resolved now to affect ignorance of it throughout.

“Had you despatches, sir?” said he, turning towards me with a look of stern severity. “Were any despatches found upon him when he was taken?” This latter question was directed to the aide-de-camp who introduced me, and who still remained at the door.

“No, Sire, nothing was found upon him except this locket.”

As he said these words he placed in Napoleon’s hands the keepsake which St. Croix had left with me years before in Spain, and which, as the reader may remember, was a miniature of the Empress Josephine.

The moment the Emperor threw his eyes upon it, the flush which excitement had called into his cheek disappeared at once. He became pale as death, his very lips as bloodless as his wan cheek.

“Leave me, Lefebvre; leave me, Cambronne, for a moment. I will speak with this gentleman alone.”

As the door closed upon them he leaned his arm upon the mantelpiece, and with his head sunk upon his bosom, remained some moments without speaking.

“Augure sinistre!” muttered he within his teeth, as his piercing gaze was riveted upon the picture before him. “VoilÀ la troisiÈme fois peut-Être la derniÈre.” Then suddenly rousing himself, he advanced close to me, and seizing me by the arm with a grasp like iron, inquired:—

“How came you by this picture? The truth, sir; mark me, the truth!”

Without showing any sign of feeling hurt at the insinuation of this question, I detailed, in as few words as I could, the circumstance by which the locket became mine. Long before I had concluded, however, I could mark that his attention flagged, and finally wandered far away from the matter before him.

“Why will you not give me the information I look for? I seek for no breach of faith. The campaign is all but over. The Prussians were beaten at Ligny, their army routed, their artillery captured, ten thousand prisoners taken. Your troops and the Dutch were conquered yesterday, and they are in full retreat on Brussels. By to-morrow evening I shall date my bulletin from the palace at Laeken. Antwerp will be in my possession within twenty-four hours. Namur is already mine. Cambronne, Lefebvre,” cried he, “cet homme-lÀ n’en sait rien,” pointing to me as he spoke; “let us see the other.” With this he motioned slightly with his hand as a sign for me to withdraw, and the next moment I was once more in the solitude of my prison-room, thinking over the singular interview I had just had with the great Emperor.

How anxiously pass the hours of one who, deprived of other means of information, is left to form his conjectures by some passing object or some chance murmur. The things which, in the ordinary course of life, are passed by unnoticed and unregarded, are now matters of moment,—with what scrutiny he examines the features of those whom he dare not question; with what patient ear he listens to each passing word. Thus to me, a prisoner, the hours went by tardily yet anxiously; no sabre clanked; no war-horse neighed; no heavy-booted cuirassier tramped in the courtyard beneath my window, without setting a hundred conjectures afloat as to what was about to happen. For some time there had been a considerable noise and bustle in and about the dwelling. Horsemen came and went continually. The sounds of galloping could be heard along the paved causeway; then the challenge of the sentry at the gate; then the nearer tread of approaching stops, and many voices speaking together, would seem to indicate that some messenger had arrived with despatches. At length all these sounds became hushed and still. No longer were the voices heard; and except the measured tread of the heavy cuirassier, as he paced on the flags beneath, nothing was to be heard. My state of suspense, doubly greater now than when the noise and tumult suggested food for conjecture, continued till towards noon, when a soldier in undress brought me some breakfast, and told me to prepare speedily for the road.

Scarcely had he left the room, when the rumbling noise of wagons was heard below, and a train of artillery carts moved into the little courtyard loaded with wounded men. It was a sad and frightful sight to see these poor fellows, as, crammed side by side in the straw of the charrette, they lay, their ghastly wounds opening with every motion of the wagon, while their wan, pale faces were convulsed with agony and suffering. Of every rank, from the sous-lieutenant to the humble soldier, from every arm of the service, from the heavy cuirassier of the guard to the light and intrepid tirailleur, they were there. I well remember one, an artillery-man of the guard, who, as they lifted him forth from the cart, presented the horrifying spectacle of one both of whose legs had been carried away by a cannon-shot. Pale, cold, and corpse-like, ha lay in their arms; his head lay heavily to one side, his arms fell passively as in death. It was at this moment a troop of lancers, the advanced guard of D’Erlon’s Division, came trotting up the road; the cry of “Vive l’Empereur!” burst from them as they approached; its echo rang within the walls of the farm-house, when suddenly the dying man, as though some magic touch had called him back to life and vigor, sprang up erect between his bearers, his filmy eye flashing fire, a burning spot of red coloring his bloodless cheek. He cast one wild and hurried look around him, like one called back from death to look upon the living; and as he raised his blood-stained hand above his head, shouted, in a heart-piercing cry, “Vive l’Empereur!” The effort was his last. It was the expiring tribute of allegiance to the chief he adored. The blood spouted in cataracts from his half-closed wounds, a convulsive spasm worked through his frame, his eyes rolled fearfully, as his outstretched hands seemed striving to clutch some object before them, and he was dead. Fresh arrivals of wounded continued to pour in; and now I thought I could detect at intervals the distant noise of a cannonade. The wind, however, was from the southward, and the sounds were too indistinct to be relied on.

“Allons, aliens, mon cher!” said a rough but good-humored looking fellow, as he strode into my room. He was the quartermaster of Milhaud’s Dragoons, under whose care I was now placed, and came to inform me that we were to set out immediately.

Monsieur Bonnard was a character in his way; and if it were not so near the conclusion of my history, I should like to present him to my readers. As it is, I shall merely say he was a thorough specimen of one class of his countrymen,—a loud talker, a louder swearer, a vaporing, boasting, overbearing, good-natured, and even soft-hearted fellow, who firmly believed that Frenchmen were the climax of the species, and Napoleon the climax of Frenchmen. Being a great bavard, he speedily told me all that had taken place during the last two days. From him I learned that the Prussians had really been beaten at Ligny, and had fallen back, he knew not where. They were, however, he said, hotly pursued by Grouchy, with thirty-five thousand men, while the Emperor himself was now following the British and Dutch armies with seventy thousand more.

“You see,” continued he, “l’affaire est faite! Who can resist the Emperor?”

These were sad tidings for me; and although I did not place implicit confidence in my informant, I had still my fears that much of what he said was true.

“And the British, now,” said I, “what direction have they taken?”

“Bah, they’re in retreat on Brussels, and will probably capitulate to-morrow.”

“Capitulate!”

“Oui, oui; ne vous fÂchez pas, camarade,” said he, laughing. “What could you do against Napoleon? You did not expect to beat him, surely? But come, we must move on; I have my orders to bring you to Planchenoit this evening, and our horses are tired enough already.”

“Mine, methinks, should be fresh,” said I.

“Parbleu, mon!” replied he; “he has twice made the journey to Fresnes this morning with despatches for Marshal Ney; the Emperor is enraged with the marshal for having retreated last night, having the wood in his possession; he says he should have waited till daybreak, and then fallen upon your retreating columns. As it is, you are getting away without much loss. Sacristie, that was a fine charge!” These last words he muttered to himself, adding, between his teeth, “Sixty-four killed and wounded.”

“What was that? Who were they?” said I.

“Our fellows,” replied he, frankly; “the Emperor ordered up two twelve-pounders, and eight squadrons of lancers; they fell upon your light dragoons in a narrow part of the high road. But suddenly we heard a noise in front; your hussars fell back, and a column of your heavy dragoons came thundering down upon us. Parbleu! they swept over us as if we were broken infantry; and there! there!” said he, pointing to the courtyard, from whence the groans of the wounded still rose,—“there are the fruits of that terrible charge.”

I could not restrain an outbreak of triumphant pleasure at this gallant feat of my countrymen.

“Yes, yes,” said the honest quartermaster; “it was a fine thing; but a heavy reckoning is at hand. But come, now, let us take the road.”

In a few moments more I found myself seated upon a heavy Norman horse, whose lumbering demi-peak saddle was nearly cleft in two by a sabre-cut.

“Ay, ay,” said Monsieur Bonnard, as he saw my eye fixed on the spot, “it was one of your fellows did that; and the same cut clove poor Pierre from the neck to the seat.”

“I hope,” said I, laughing, “the saddle may not prove an unlucky one.”

“No, no,” said the Frenchman, seriously; “it has paid its debt to fate.”

As we pressed on our road, which, broken by the heavy guns, and ploughed up in many places by the artillery, was nearly impassable, we could distinctly hear from time to time the distant boom of the large guns, as the retiring and pursuing armies replied to each other; while behind us, but still a long way off, a dark mass appeared on the horizon: they were the advancing columns of Ney’s Division.

“Have the troops come in contact more than once this morning?”

“Not closely,” said the quartermaster; “the armies have kept a respectful distance; they were like nothing I can think of,” said the figurative Frenchman, “except two hideous serpents wallowing in mire, and vomiting at each other whole rivers of fire and flame.”

As we approached Planchenoit, we came up to the rear-guard of the French army; from them we learned that Ney’s Division, consisting of the Eighth Corps, had joined the Emperor; that the British were still in retreat, but that nothing of any importance had occurred between the rival armies, the French merely firing their heavy guns from time to time to ascertain by the reply the position of the retreating forces. The rain poured down in torrents; gusts of cold and stormy wind swept across the wide plains, or moaned sorrowfully through the dense forest. As I rode on by the side of my companion, I could not help remarking how little the effects of a fatiguing march and unfavorable weather were apparent on those around me. The spirit of excited gayety pervaded every rank; and unlike the stern features which the discipline of our service enforces, the French soldiers were talking, laughing and even singing, as they marched; the canteens passed freely from hand to hand, and jests and toasts flew from front to rear along the dark columns; many carried their loaves of dark rye-bread on the tops of their bayonets; and to look upon that noisy and tumultuous mass as they poured along, it would have needed a practised eye to believe them the most disciplined of European armies.

The sun was just setting, as mounting a ridge of high land beside the high road, my companion pointed with his finger to a small farm-house, which, standing alone in the plain, commands an extensive view on every side of it.

“There,” said he,—“there is the quartier gÉnÉral; the Emperor sleeps there to-night. The King of Holland will afford him a bed to-morrow night.”

The dark shadows of the coming night were rapidly falling as I strained my eyes to trace the British position. A hollow, rumbling sound announced the movement of artillery in our front.

“What is it, Arnotte?” said the quartermaster to a dragoon officer who rode past.

“It is nothing,” replied the other, laughing, “but a ruse of the Emperor. He wishes to ascertain if the enemy are in force, or if we have only a strong rear-guard before us.”

As he spoke fifteen heavy guns opened there fire, and the still air reverberated with a loud thunder. The sound had not died away, the very smoke lay yet heavily upon the moist earth, when forty pieces of British cannon rang out their answer, and the very plain trembled beneath the shock.

“Ha, they are there, then!” exclaimed the dragoon, as his eyes flashed with ecstasy. “Look! see! the artillery are limbering up already. The Emperor is satisfied.”

And so it was. A dark column of twelve hundred horse that accompanied the guns into the plain, now wheeled slowly round, and wound their long track far away to the right. The rain fell in torrents; the wind was hushed; and as the night fell in darkness, the columns moved severally to their destinations. The bivouacs were formed; the watch-fires were lighted; and seventy thousand men and two hundred pieces of cannon occupied the heights of Planchenoit.

“My orders are to bring you to La Caillon,” said the quartermaster; “and if you only can spur your jaded horse into a trot, we shall soon reach it.”

About a hundred yards from the little farm-house, stood a small cottage of a peasant. Here some officers of Marshal Soult’s staff had taken up their quarters; and thither my guide now bent his steps.

“Comment, Bonnard!” said an aide-de-camp, as we rode up. “Another prisoner? Sacrebleu! We shall have the whole British staff among us. You are in better luck than your countryman, the general, I hope,” said the aide-decamp. “His is a sad affair; and I’m sorry for it, too. He’s a fine, soldier-like looking fellow.”

“Pray, what has happened?” said I. “To what do you allude?”

“Merely to one of your people who has just been taken with some letters and papers of Bourmont’s in his possession. The Emperor is in no very amicable humor towards the traitor, and resolves to pay off some part of his debt on his British correspondent.”

“How cruel! How unjust!”

“Why, yes, it is hard, I confess, to be shot for the fault of another. Mais, que voulez-vous?”

“And when is this atrocious act to take place?”

“By daybreak to-morrow,” said he, bowing, as he turned towards the hut. “Meanwhile, let me counsel you, if you would not make another in the party, to reserve your indignation for your return to England.”

“Come along,” said the quartermaster; “I find they have got quarters for you in the granary of the farm. I’ll not forget you at supper-time.”

So saying, he gave his horse to an orderly, and led me by a little path to a back entrance of the dwelling. Had I time or inclination for such a scene, I might have lingered long to gaze at the spectacle before me. The guard held their bivouac around the quarters of the Emperor; and here, beside the watch-fires, sat the bronzed and scarred veterans who had braved every death and danger, from the Pyramids to the Kremlin. On every side I heard the names of those whom history has already consigned to immortality; and as the fitful blaze of a wood-fire flashed from within the house, I could mark the figure of one who, with his hands behind his back, walked leisurely to and fro, his head leaned a little forward as though in deep thought; but as the light fell upon his pale and placid features, there was nothing there to indicate the stormy strife of hope and fear that raged beneath. From the rapid survey I took around I was roused by an officer, who, saluting me, politely desired me to follow him. We mounted a flight of stone steps which, outside the wall of the building, led to the upper story of a large but ruined granary. Here a sentry was posted, who permitting us to pass forward, I found myself in a small, mean-looking apartment, whose few articles of coarse furniture were dimly lighted by the feeble glimmer of a lamp. At the farther end of the room sat a man wrapped in a large blue cavalry cloak, whose face, covered with his hands as he bent downward, was completely concealed from view. The noise of the opening door did not appear to arouse him, nor did he notice my approach. As I entered, a faint sigh broke from him, as he turned his back upon the light; but he spoke not a word.

I sat for some time in silence, unwilling to obtrude myself upon the sorrows of one to whom I was unknown; and as I walked up and down the gloomy chamber, my thoughts became riveted so completely upon my own fortunes that I ceased to remember my fellow-prisoner. The hours passed thus lazily along, when the door suddenly opened, and an officer in the dress of a lancer of the guard stood for an instant before me, and then, springing forward, clasped me by both hands, and called out,—

“Charles, mon ami, c’est bien toi?”

The voice recalled to my recollections what his features, altered by time and years, had failed to do. It was Jules St. Croix, my former prisoner in the Peninsula. I cannot paint the delight with which I saw him again; his presence now, while it brought back the memory of some of my happiest days, also assured me that I was not friendless.

His visit was a brief one, for he was in attendance on Marshal Lobau’s staff. In the few minutes, however, of his stay, he said,—

“I have a debt to pay, Charles, and have come to discharge it. In an hour hence I shall leave this with despatches for the left of our line. Before I go, I’ll come here with two or three others, as it were, to wish you a good-night. I’ll take care to carry a second cloak and a foraging cap; I’ll provide a fast horse; you shall accompany us for some distance. I’ll see you safe across our pickets; for the rest, you must trust to yourself. C’est arrangÉ, n’est-ce-pas?”

One firm grasp of his hand, to which I responded by another, followed, and he was gone.

Everything concurred to show me that a tremendous battle must ensue on the morrow, if the British forces but held their position. It was, then, with a feeling of excitement approaching to madness that I saw my liberty before me; that once more I should join in the bold charge and the rude shock of arms, hear the wild cry of my gallant countrymen, and either live to triumph with them in victory, or wait not to witness our defeat. Fast flew my hopes, as with increasing impatience I waited St. Croix’s coming, and with anxious heart listened to every sound upon the stairs which might indicate his approach. At length he came. I heard the gay and laughing voices of his companions as they came along; the door opened, and affecting the familiarity of old acquaintance to deceive the sentry, they all shook me by the hand and spoke in terms of intimacy.

“LabedoyÈre is below,” said St. Croix, in a whisper; “you must wait here a few moments longer, and I’ll return for you; put on the cloak and cap, and speak not a word as you pass out. The sentry will suppose that one of our party has remained behind; for I shall call out as if speaking to him, as I leave the room.”

The voice of an officer calling in tones of impatience for the party to come down, cut short the interview; and again assuring me of their determination to stand by me, they left the chamber and descended into the court. Scarcely had the door closed behind them, when my fellow-prisoner, whom I had totally forgotten, sprang on his legs and came towards me. His figure screening the lamplight as he stood, prevented my recognizing his features, but the first tones of his voice told me who he was.

“Stay, sir,” cried he, as he placed his hand upon my arm; “I have overheard your project. In an hour hence you will be free. Can you—-will you perform a service for one who will esteem it not the less that it will be the last that man can render him? The few lines which I have written here with my pencil are for my daughter.”

I could bear no more, and called out in a voice broken as his own,—

“Oh, be not deceived, sir. Will you, even in an hour like this, accept a service from one whom you have banished from your house?”

The old man started as I spoke; his hand trembled till it shook my very arm, and after a pause and with an effort to seem calm and collected, he added,—

“My hours are few. Some despatches of General Bourmont with which the duke intrusted me were found in my possession. My sentence is a hurried one, and it is death. By to-morrow’s sunrise—”

“Stay, stay!” said I. “You shall escape; my life is in no danger. I have, as you see, even friends among the staff. Besides, I have done nothing to compromise or endanger my position.”

“No, sir,” said he, sternly, “I will not act such a part as this. The tears you have seen in these old eyes are not for myself. I fear not death. Better it were it should have come upon the field of glorious battle; but as it is, my soldier’s honor is intact, untainted.”

“You refuse the service on account of him who proffers it,” said I, as I fell heavily upon a seat, my head bowed upon my bosom.

“Not so, not so, my boy,” replied he, kindly. “The near approach of death, like the fading light of day, gives us a longer and a clearer view before us. I feel that I have wronged you; that I have imputed to you the errors of others; but, believe me, if I have wronged you, I have punished my own heart; for, Charles, I have loved you like a son.”

“Then prove it,” said I, “and let me act towards you as towards a father. You will not? You refuse me still? Then, by Heaven, I remain to share your fate! I well know the temper of him who has sentenced you, and that, by one word of mine, my destiny is sealed forever.”

“No, no, boy! This is but rash and insane folly. Another year or two, nay, perhaps a few months more, and in the common course of Nature I had ceased to be; but you, with youth, with fortune, and with hope—”

“Oh, not with hope!” said I, in a voice of agony.

“Nay, say not so,” replied he, calmly, while a sickly smile played sadly over his face; “you will give this letter to my daughter, you will tell her that we parted as friends should part; and if after that, when time shall have smoothed down her grief, and her sorrow be rather a dark dream of the past than a present suffering,—if then you love her, and if—”

“Oh, tempt me not thus!” said I, as the warm tears gushed from my eyes. “Lead me not thus astray from what my honor tells me I should do. Hark! They are coming already. I hear the clank of their sabres; they are mounting the steps; not a moment is to be lost! Do you refuse me still?”

“I do,” replied he, firmly; “I am resolved to bide my fate.”

“Then so do I,” cried I, as folding my arms, I sat down beside the window, determined on my course.

“Charley, Charley,” said he, stooping over me, “my friend, my last hope, the protector of my child—”

“I will not go,” said I, in a hollow whisper.

Already they were at the door; I heard their voices as they challenged the sentry; I heard his musket as he raised it to his shoulder. The thought flashed across me. I jumped up, and throwing the loose mantle of the French dragoon around him, and replacing his own with the foraging cap of St. Croix, I sprang into a corner of the room, and seating myself so as to conceal my face, waited the result. The door opened, the party entered laughing and talking together.

“Come, EugÈne,” said one, taking Sir George by the arm, “you have spent long enough time here to learn the English language. We shall be late at the outpost. Messieurs les Anglais, good-night, good-night!”

This was repeated by the others as they passed out with Sir George Dashwood among them, who, seeing that my determination was not to be shaken, and that any demur on his part must necessarily compromise both, yielded to a coup-de-main what he never would have consented to from an appeal to his reason. The door closed; their steps died away in the distance. Again a faint sound struck my ear; it was the challenge of the sentry beneath, and I heard the tramp of horses’ feet. All was still, and in a burst of heart-felt gratitude I sank upon my knees, and thanked God that he was safe.

So soundly did I sleep, that not before I was shaken several times by the shoulder could I awake on the following morning.

“I thought there were two prisoners here,” said a gruff voice, as an old mustached-looking veteran cast a searching look about the room. “However, we shall have enough of them before sunset. Get—get up; Monsieur le Duc de Dalmatie desires some information you can give him.”

As he said this, he led me from the room; and descending the flight of stone steps, we entered the courtyard. It was but four o’clock, the rain, still falling in torrents, yet every one was up and stirring.

“Mount this horse,” said my gruff friend, “and come with me towards the left; the marshal has already gone forward.”

The heavy mist of the morning, darkened by the lowering clouds which almost rested on the earth, prevented our seeing above a hundred yards before us; but the hazy light of the watch-fires showed me extent of the French position, as it stretched away along the ridge towards the Halle road. We rode forward at a trot, but in the deep clayey soil we sank at each moment to our horses’ fetlocks. I turned my head as I heard the tramp and splash of horsemen behind, and perceived that I was followed by two dragoons, who, with their carbines on the rest, kept their eyes steadily upon me to prevent any chance of escape. In a slight hollow of the ground before us stood a number of horsemen, who conversed together in a low tone as we came up.

“There, that is the marshal,” said my companion, in a whisper, as we joined the party.

“Yes, Monsieur le Duc,” said an engineer colonel, who stood beside Soult’s horse with a colored plan in his hand,—“yes, that is the ChÂteau de Goumont, yonder. It is, as you perceive, completely covered by the rising ground marked here. They will doubtless place a strong artillery force in this quarter.”

“Ah, who is this?” said the marshal, turning his eyes suddenly upon me, and then casting a look of displeasure around him, lest I should have overheard any portion of their conversation. “You are deficient in cavalry, it would appear, sir,” said he to me.

“You must feel, Monsieur le Duc,” said I, calmly, “how impossible it is for me, as a man of honor and a soldier, to afford you any information as to the army I belong to.”

“I do not see that, sir. You are a prisoner in our hands; your treatment, your fortune, your very life depends on us. Besides, sir, when French officers fall into the power of your people, I have heard they meet with no very ceremonious treatment.”

“Those who say so, say falsely,” said I, “and wrong both your countrymen and mine. In any case—”

“The Guards are an untried force in your service,” said he, with a mixture of inquiry and assertion.

I replied not a word.

“You must see, sir,” continued he, “that all the chances are against you. The Prussians beaten, the Dutch discouraged, the Belgians only waiting for victory to incline to our standard, to desert your ranks and pass over to ours; while your troops, scarcely forty thousand,—nay, I might say, not more than thirty-five thousand. Is it not so?”

Here was another question so insidiously conveyed that even a change of feature on my part might have given the answer. A half smile, however, and a slight bow was all my reply; while Soult muttered something between his teeth, which called forth a laugh from those around him.

“You may retire, sir, a little,” said he, dryly, to me.

Not sorry to be freed from the awkwardness of my position, I fell back to the little rising ground behind. Although the rain poured down without ceasing, the rising sun dispelled, in part, the heavy vapor, and by degrees different portions of the wide plain presented themselves to view; and as the dense masses of fog moved slowly along, I could detect, but still faintly, the outline of the large, irregular building which I had heard them call the ChÂteau de Goumont, and from whence I could hear the clank of masonry, as, at intervals, the wind bore the sounds towards me. These were the sappers piercing the walls for musketry; and this I could now perceive was looked upon as a position of no small importance. Surrounded by a straggling orchard of aged fruit-trees, the chÂteau lay some hundred yards in advance of the British line, commanded by two eminences,—one of which, in the possession of the French, was already occupied by a park of eleven guns; of the other I knew nothing, except the passing glance I had obtained of its position on the map. The Second Corps, under Jerome Bonaparte, with Foy and Kellermann’s Brigade of light artillery, stretched behind us. On the right of these came D’Erlon’s Corps, extending to a small wood, which my companion told me was Frischermont; while Lobau’s Division was stationed to the extreme right towards St. Lambert, to maintain the communication with Grouchy at Wavre, or, if need be, to repel the advance of the Prussians and prevent their junction with the Anglo-Dutch army. The Imperial Guard, with the cavalry, formed the reserve. Such was, in substance, the information given me by my guide, who seemed to expatiate with pleasure over the magnificent array of battle, while he felt a pride in displaying his knowledge of the various divisions and their leaders.

“I see the marshal moving towards the right,” said he; “we had better follow him.”

It was now about eight o’clock as from the extremity of the line I could see a party of horsemen advancing at a sharp canter.

“That must be Ney,” said my companion. “See how rashly he approaches the English lines!”

And so it was. The party in question rode fearlessly down the slope, and did not halt until they reached within about three hundred yards of what appeared a ruined church.

“What is that building yonder?”

“That—that,” replied he, after a moment’s thought,—“that must be La Haye Sainte; and yonder, to the right of it, is the road to Brussels. There, look now! Your people are in motion. See, a column is moving towards the right, and the cavalry are defiling on the other side of the road! I was mistaken, that cannot be Ney. Sacre Dieu! it was the Emperor himself, and here he comes.”

As he spoke, the party galloped forward and pulled up short within a few yards of where we stood.

“Ha!” cried he, as his sharp glance fell upon me, “there is my taciturn friend of Quatre Bras. You see, sir, I can dispense with your assistance now; the chess-board is before me;” and then added, in a tone he intended not to be overheard, “Everything depends on Grouchy.”

“Well, Haxo,” he called out to an officer who galloped up, chapeau in hand, “what say you? Are they intrenched in that position?”

“No, Sire, the ground is open, and in two hours more will be firm enough for the guns to manoeuvre.”

“Now, then, for breakfast,” said Napoleon, as with an easy and tranquil smile he turned his horse’s head and cantered gently up the heights towards La Belle Alliance. As he approached the lines, the cry of “Vive l’Empereur!” burst forth. Regiment after regiment took it up; and from the distant wood of Frischermont to the far left beside Merke-braine, the shout resounded. So sudden, so simultaneous the outbreak, that he himself, accustomed as he well was to the enthusiasm of his army, seemed as he reined in his horse, and looked with proud and elated eye upon the countless thousands, astounded and amazed. He lifted with slow and graceful action his unplumed hat above his head, and while he bowed that proud front before which kings have trembled, the acclamation burst forth anew, and rent the very air.

At this moment the sun shone brilliantly from out the dark clouds, and flashed upon the shining blades and glistening bayonets along the line. A dark and lowering shadow hung gloomily over the British position, while the French sparkled and glittered in the sunbeams. His quick glance passed with lightning speed from one to the other; and I thought that, in his look, upturned to heaven, I could detect the flitting thought which bade him hope it was an augury. The bands of the Imperial Guard burst forth in joyous and triumphant strains; and amidst the still repeated cries of “L’Empereur! l’Empereur!” he rode slowly along towards La Belle Alliance.