The snow, half melted with the heavy rains, lay still deeply on the roads, and a dark, lowering sky stretched above, as I harried onwards, with all the speed I could, towards the east of France.

Already the Allies had passed the Rhine. Schwartzen-berg in the south, Blucher in the east, and Bernadotte on the Flemish frontier, were conveying their vast armies to bear down on him whom singly none had dared to encounter. All France was in arms, and every step was turned eastwards. Immense troops of conscripts, many scarce of the age of boyhood, crowded the highways. The veterans themselves were enrolled once more, and formed battalions for the defence of their native land. Every town and village was a garrison. The deep-toned rolling of ammunition wagons and the heavy tramp of horses sounded through the nights long. War, terrible war, spoke from every object around. Strongholds were strengthening, regiments brigading, cavalry organizing on all sides.

No longer, however, did I witness the wild enthusiasm which I so well remembered among the soldiers of the army. Here were no glorious outbreaks of that daring spirit which so marked the Frenchman, and made him almost irresistible in arms. A sad and gloomy silence prevailed: a look of fierce but hopeless determination was over all. They marched like men going to death, but with the step and bearing of heroes.

I entered the little town of Verviers. The day was breaking, but the troops were under arms. The Emperor had but just taken his departure for ChÂlons-sur-Marne. They told me of it as I changed horses,—not with that fierce pride which a mere passing glance at the great Napoleon would once have evoked; they spoke of him without emotion. I asked if he were paler or thinner than his wont: they did not know. They said that he travelled post, but that his staff were on horseback. From this I gathered that he was either ill, or in that frame of mind in which he preferred to be alone. While I was yet speaking, an officer of Engineers came up to the carriage, and called out,—

“Unharness these horses, and bring them down to the barracks. These, sir,” said he, turning towards me, “are not times to admit of ceremony. We have eighteen guns to move, and want cattle.”

“Enough, sir,” said I. “I am not here to retard your movements, but if I can, to forward them. Can I, as a volunteer, be of any service at this moment?”

“Have you served before? Of course you have, though. In what arm?”

“As a Hussar of the Guard, for some years.”

“Come along with me; I 'll bring you to the general at once.”

Re-entering the inn, the officer preceded me up stairs, and after a moment's delay, introduced me into the presence of General Letort, then commanding a cavalry brigade.

“I have heard your request, sir. Where is your commission? Have you got it with you?”

I handed it to him in silence. He examined it rapidly; and then turning the reverse, read the few lines inscribed by the minister of war.

“I could have given you a post this day, sir, this very hour,” said he, “but for a blunder of our commissariat people. There's a troop here waiting for a re-mount, but the order has not come down from Paris; and our officials here will not advance the money till it arrives, as if these were times for such punctilio. They are to form part of General Kellermann's force, which is sadly deficient. Remain here, however, and perhaps by to-morrow—”

“How much may the sum be, sir?” asked I, interrupting.

The general almost started with surprise at the abruptness of my question, and in a tone of half reproof answered,—

“The amount required is beside the matter, sir; unless,” added he, sarcastically, “you are disposed to advance it yourself.”

“Such was the object of my question,” said I, calmly, and determining not to notice the manner he had assumed.

“Parbleu!” exclaimed he, “that is very different. Twenty thousand francs, however, is a considerable sum.”

“I have as much, and something more, if need be, in my carriage,—if English gold be no objection.”

“No, pardie! that it is not,” cried he, laughing; “I only wish we saw more of it. Are you serious in all this?”

The best reply to his question was to hasten down stairs and return with two small canvas bags in my hands.

“Here are one thousand guineas,” said I, laying them on the table.

While one of the general's aides-de-camp was counting and examining the gold, I repeated at his request the circumstances which brought me once again to France to serve under the banner of the Emperor.

“And your name, sir,” said he, as he seated himself to write, “is Thomas Burke, ci-devant captain of the Eighth Hussars of the Guard. Well, I can promise you the restoration of your old grade. Meanwhile, you must take command of these fellows. They are mere partisan troops, hurriedly raised, and ill organized; but I'll give you a letter to General DamrÉmont at Chalons, and he 'll attend to you.”

“It is not a position for myself I seek, General,” said I. “Wherever I can best serve the Emperor, there only I desire to be.”

“I have ventured to leave that point to General DamrÉmont,” said he, smiling. “Your motives do not require much explanation. Let us to breakfast now, and by noon we shall have everything in readiness for your departure.”

Thus rapidly, and as it were by the merest accident, was I again become a soldier of the Emperor; and that same day was once more at the head of a squadron, on my way to ChÂlons. My troop were, indeed, very unlike the splendid array of my old Hussars of the Guard. They were hurriedly raised, and not over well equipped, but still they were stout-looking, hardy peasants, who, whatever deficiency of drill they might display, I knew well would exhibit no lack of courage before an enemy.

On reaching ChÂlons, I found that General DamrÉmont had left with the staff for Vitry only a few hours before; and so I reported myself to the officer commanding the town, and was ordered by him to join the cavalry brigade then advancing on Vitry.

Had I time at this moment, I could not help devoting some minutes to an account of that strange and motley mass which then were brigaded as Imperial cavalry. Dragoons of every class, heavy and light-armed,—grenadiers À cheval and hussars, cuirassiers, carbineers, and lancers,—were all, pell-mell, mixed up confusedly together, and hurried onwards; some to join their respective corps if they could find them, but all prepared to serve wherever their sabres might be called for. It was confusion to the last degree; but a tumult without enthusiasm or impulse. The superior officers, who were well acquainted with the state of events, made no secret of their gloomy forebodings; the juniors lacked energy in a cause where they saw no field for advancement; and the soldiers, always prepared to imbibe their feelings from their officers, seemed alike sad and dispirited.

What a change was this from the wild and joyous spirit which once animated every grade and class,—from the generous enthusiasm that once warmed each bold heart, and made every soldier a hero! Alas! the terrible consequences of long defeat were on all. The tide of battle that rolled disastrously from the ruined walls of the Kremlin still swept along towards the great Palace of the Tuileries. Germany had witnessed the destruction of two mighty armies; the third and last was now awaiting the eventful struggle on the very soil of their country. The tide of fugitives, which preceded the retiring columns of Victor and Ney, met the advancing bodies of the conscripts, and spread dismay and consternation as they went.

The dejection was but the shadow of the last approaching disaster.

On the night of the 27th January, the cavalry brigade with which I was received orders to march by the Forest of Bar on Brienne, where BlÜcher was stationed in no expectation of being attacked. The movement, notwithstanding the heavy roads, was made with great rapidity; and by noon on the following day we came up with the main body of the army in full march against the enemy.

Then once more did I recognize the old spirit of the army. Joyous songs and gay cheers were heard from the different corps we passed. The announcement of a speedy meeting with the Prussians had infused new vigor among the troops. We were emerging from the deep shade of the wood into a valley, where a light infantry regiment were bivouacked. Their fires were formed in a wide circle, and the cooking went merrily on, amid the pleasant song and jocund cries.

Our own brief halt was just concluded, when the bugles sounded to resume the march; and I stood for a moment admiring the merry gambols of the infantry, when an air I well remembered was chanted forth in full chorus. But my memory was not left long in doubt as to where and how these sounds were first heard. The wild uproar at once recalled both, as they sang out,—

“Hurrah for the Faubourg of St. Antoine!”

No sooner did I hear the words, than I spurred my horse forward and rode down towards them.

“What regiment's yours, Comrade?” said I, to a fellow hurrying to the ranks.

“The Fifth, mon officier,” said he, “Voltigeurs of the Line.”

“Have you a certain FranÇois, a maÎtre d'armes, still among you?”

“Yes, that we have. There he is yonder, beating time to the roulade.”

I looked in the direction he pointed, and there stood my old friend. He was advanced in front of a company, and with the air of a tambour-major he seemed as if he was giving time to the melody.

“Ah, sacrÉ conscripts that ye are!” cried he, as with his fist clenched he gesticulated fiercely towards them; “can't ye keep the measure? Once, now, and all together:—

“'Picardy first, and then—.”

“Halloo, MaÎtre FranÇois! can you remember an old friend?”

The little man turned suddenly, and bringing his hand to the salute, remained stiff and erect, as if on parade.

“Connais pas, mon capitaine,” was his answer, after a considerable pause.

“What! not know me!—me, whom you made one of your own gallant company, calling me 'Burke of Ours'?”

“Ah, par la barbe de Saint Pierre! is this my dear comrade of the Eighth? Why, where have you been? They said you left us forever and aye.”

“I tried it, FranÇois; but it wouldn't do.”

“Mille bombes!” said he; “but you 're back in pleasant times,—to see the Cossacks learning to drink champagne, and leave us to pay the score. Come along, however; take your old place here. You are free to choose now, and needn't be a dragoon any longer; not but that your old general will be glad to see you again.”

“General d'Auvergne! Where is he now?”

“With the light cavalry brigade, in front; I saw him pass here two hours since.”

“And how looks he, FranÇois?”

“A little stooped, or so, more than you knew him; but his seat in the saddle seems just as firm. Ventrebleu! if he 'd been a voltigeur, he 'd be a good man these ten years to come.”

Delighted to learn that I was so near my dearest and oldest friend in the world, I shook Francois's hand, and parted; but not without a pledge, that whenever I joined the infantry, the Fifth Voltigeurs of the Line were to have the preference.

As we advanced towards Brienne the distant thunder of large guns was heard; which gradually grew louder and more sustained, and betokened that the battle had already begun. The roads, blocked up with dense masses of infantry and long trains of wagons, prevented our rapid advance; and when we tried the fields at either side, the soil, cut up with recent rains, made us sink to the very girths of our horses. Still, order after order came for the troops to press forward, and every effort was made to obey the command.

It was five o'clock as we debouched into the plain, and beheld the fields whereon the battle had been contested; for already the enemy were retiring, and the French troops in eager pursuit. Behind, however, lay the town of Brienne, still held by the Russians, but now little better than a heap of smoking ruins, the tremendous fire of the French artillery having reduced the place to ashes. Conspicuous above all rose the dismantled walls of the ancient military college; the school where Napoleon had learned his first lesson in war, where first he essayed to point those guns which now with such fearful havoc he turned against itself. What a strange, sad Subject of contemplation for him who now gazed on it! On either side, the fire of the artillery continued till nightfall; but the Russians still held the town. A few straggling shots closed the combat; and darkness now spread over the wide plain, save where the watchfires marked out the position of the French troops.

A sudden flash of lurid flame, however, threw its gleam over the town, and a wild cheer was heard rising above the clatter of musketry. It was a surprise party of grenadiers, who had forced their way into the grounds of the old chÂteau, where BlÜcher held his headquarters. Louder and louder grew the firing, and a red glare in the dark sky told how the battle was raging. Up that steep street, at the top of which the venerable chÂteau stood, poured the infantry columns in a run. The struggle was short. The dull sound of the Russian drum soon proclaimed a retreat; and a rocket darting through the black sky announced to the Emperor that the position had been won.

The next day the Emperor fixed his headquarters at the chÂteau, and a battalion of the guard bivouacked in the park around it. I had sent forward the letter to GÉnÉral DamrÉmont, and was wondering when and in what terms the reply might come, when the general himself rode up, accompanied by a single aide-de-camp.

“I have had the opportunity, sir, to speak of your conduct in the proper quarter,” said he, courteously; “and the result is, your appointment as major of the Tenth Hussars, or, if you prefer it, the staff.”

“Wherever, sir, my humble services can best be employed. I have no other wish.”

“Then take the regimental rank,” said he; “your brigade will see enough of hot work ere long. And now push forward to MÉziÈres, where you'll find your regiment. They have received orders to march to-morrow, early.”

I was not sorry to be relieved from the command of my irregular horse, who went by the title of “brigands” in the army generally; though, if the truth were to be told, the reproach on the score of honesty came ill from those who conferred it. Still, it was a more gratifying position to hold a rank in a regiment of regular cavalry, and one whose reputation was second to none in the service.

“I wish to present myself to the colonel in command, sir,” said I, addressing an officer, who with two or three others stood chatting at the door of a cottage.

“You 'll find him here, sir,” said he, pointing to the hut. But, as he spoke, the clank of a sabre was heard, and at the same instant a tall, soldierlike figure stooped beneath the low doorway, and came forth.

“The colonel of the Tenth, I presume?” said I, handing the despatch from General DamrÉmont.

“What! my old college friend and companion!” cried the colonel, as he stepped back in amazement. “Have I such good fortune as to see you in my regiment?”

“Can it be really so?” said I, in equal astonishment. “Are you Tascher?”

“Yes, my dear friend; the same Tascher you used to disarm so easily at college,—a colonel at last. But why are you not at the head of a regiment long since? Oh! I forgot, though,” said he, in some confusion; “I heard all about it. But come in here; I've no better quarters to offer you, but such as it is, make it yours.”

My old companion of the Polytechnique was, indeed, little altered by time,—careless, inconsiderate, and good-hearted as ever. He told me that he had only gained the command of the regiment a few weeks before; “and,” added he, “if matters mend not soon, I am scarcely like to hold it much longer. The despatches just received tell that the Allies are concentrating at Trannes; and if so, we shall have a battle against overwhelming odds. No matter, Burke; you have got into a famous corps,—they fight splendidly, and my excellent uncle, his Majesty, loves to indulge their predilection.”

I passed the day with Tascher, chatting over our respective fortunes; and in discussing the past and the future the greater part of the night went over. Before dawn, however, we were on the march towards ChaumiÈre, whither the army was directed, and the Emperor himself then stationed.

It was the 1st of February, and the weather was dark, lowering, and gloomy. A cold wind drove the snowdrift in fitful gusts before it, and the deep roads made our progress slow and difficult. As our line of advance, however, was not that by which the other divisions were marching, it was already past noon before we knew that the enemy was but three leagues distant. On advancing farther, we heard the faint sounds of a cannonade; and then they grew louder and louder, till the whole air seemed tremulous with the concussion.

“A heavy fire, Colonel,” said a veteran officer of the regiment. “I should guess there are not less than eighty or a hundred guns engaged.”

“Press on, men! press on!” cried Tascher. “When his Majesty provides such music, it's scarcely polite to be late.”

At a quick trot we came on, and about three o'clock debouched in the plain behind Oudinot's battalions of reserve, which were formed in two dense columns, about a hundred yards apart.

“Hussars to the front!” cried an aide-de-camp, as he galloped past, and waved his cap in the direction of the space between the columns.

In separate squadrons we penetrated through the defile, and came out on an open plain behind the centre of the first line. The ground was sufficiently elevated here, so that I could overlook the front line; but all I could see was a dense, heavy smoke, which intervened between the two positions, in the midst of which, and directly in front, a village lay. Towards this, three columns of infantry were converging, and around the sounds of battle were raging. This was La Giberie: the hamlet formed the key of the French position, and had been twice carried by, and twice regained from, the Allies. As I looked, the supporting columns halted, wheeled, and retired; while a tremendous shower of grape was poured upon them from the village, which now seemed to have been retaken by the Allies.

“Cavalry to the front!” was now the order; and a force of six thousand sabres advanced from between the battalions, and formed for attack. It was Nansouty who led them, and his heavy cuirassiers were in the van; and then came the grenadiers À cheval; ours was the third, in column. As each regiment debouched, the word “Charge!” rang out, and forward we went. The snow drifting straight against us, we could see nothing; nor was I conscious of any check to our course till the shaking of the vast column in front and then the opening of the squadrons denoted resistance, when suddenly a flash flared out, and a hurricane of cannon-shot tore through our dense files. Then I knew that we were attacking a battery of guns,—and not till then. Mad cheers and cries of wounded men burst forth upon the air, with the clashing din of sabres and small-arms; the mass of cavalry appeared to heave and throb like some great monster in its agony. The trumpet to retreat sounded, and we galloped back to our lines, leaving above five hundred dead behind us, on a field where I had not yet seen the enemy.

Meanwhile the Russians were assembling a mighty force around the village; for now the cannonade opened with tenfold vigor in front, and fresh guns were called up to reply to the fire. Hitherto all was shrouded in the blue smoke of the artillery and the dense flakes of the snowdrift, when suddenly a storm of wind swept past, carrying with it both sleet and smoke; and now, within less than five hundred yards, we beheld the Allied armies in front of us. Two of the three villages, which formed our advanced position, already had been carried; and towards the third, La BothiÈre, they were advancing quickly.

Ney's corps, ordered up to its defence, rushed boldly on, and the clattering musketry announced that they were engaged; while twelve guns were moved up in full gallop to their support, and opened their fire at once. Scarce had they done so, when a wild hurrah was heard; and like a whirlwind, a vast mass of cavalry,—the Cossacks of the Don and the Uhlans of the South, commingled and mixed,—bear down on the guns. The struggle is for life or death; no quarter given. Ney recalls his columns, and the guns are lost.

“Who shall bring the Emperor the tidings?” said Tascher, as his voice trembled with excitement. “I'd rather storm the battery single-handed than do it.”

“He has seen worse than that already to-day,” said an aide-de-camp at our side. “He has seen Lahorie's squadrons of the Dragoons of the Guard cut to pieces by the Russian horse.”

“The Guard! the Guard!” repeated Tascher, in accents where doubt and despair were blended.

“There goes another battalion to certain death!” muttered the aide-de-camp, as he pointed to a column of grenadiers emerging from the front line; “see,—I knew it well,—they are moving on La BothiÈre. But here comes the Emperor.”

Before I could detect the figure among the crowd, the staff tore rapidly past, followed by a long train of cavalry moving towards the left.

“His favorite stroke,” said Tascher: “an infantry advance, and a flank movement with cavalry.” And as the words escaped him, we saw the horsemen bearing down at top speed towards the village.

But now we could look no longer; our brigade was ordered to support the attack, and we advanced at a trot. The enemy saw the movement, and a great mass of cavalry were thrown out to meet it.

“Here they come!” was the cry repeated by three or four together, and the earth shook as the squadrons came down.

Our column dashed forward to meet them; when suddenly through the drift we beheld a mass of fugitives, scattered and broken, approaching: they were our own cavalry, routed in the attempt on the flank, now flying to the rear, broken and disordered.

Before we could cover their retreat, the enemy were upon us. The shock was dreadful, and for some minutes carried all before it; but then rallying, the brave horsemen of France closed up and faced the foe. How vain all the efforts of the redoubted warrior of the Dnieper and the Wolga against the stern soldier of Napoleon! Their sabres flashed like lightning glances, and as fatally bore down on all before them; and as the routed squadrons fell back, the wild cheers of “Vive l'Empereur!” told that at least one great moment of success atoned for the misfortunes of the day.

“His Majesty saw your charge, Colonel,” said a general officer to Tascher as he rode back at the head of a squadron. “So gallant a thing as that never goes unrewarded.”

Tascher's cheek flushed as he bowed in acknowledgment of the praise; but I heard him mutter to himself the same instant, “Too late! too late!” Fatal words they were,—the presage of the mishap they threatened!

A great attack on La RothiÈre was now preparing. It was to be made by Napoleon's favorite manoeuvre of cavalry, artillery, and infantry combined, each supporting and sustaining the other. Eighteen guns, with three thousand sabres, and two columns of infantry numbering four thousand each, were drawn up in readiness for the moment to move. Ney received orders to lead them, and now they issued forth into the plain.

Our own impatience at not being of the number was quickly merged in intense anxiety for the result. It was a gorgeous thing, indeed, to see that mighty mass unravelling itself,—the guns galloping madly to the front, supported on either flank by cavalry; while, masked behind, marched the black columns of infantry, their tall shakos nodding like the tree-tops of a forest. The snow was now falling fast, and the figures grew fainter and fainter, and all that remained within our view was the tail of the columns, which were only disengaging themselves from the lines.

A deafening cannonade opened from the Allied artillery on the advance, unreplied to by our guns, which were ordered not to fire until within half range of the enemy. Suddenly a figure is seen emerging from the heavy snowdrift at the full speed of his horse; another, and another, follow him in quick succession. They make for the position of the Emperor. “What can it be?” cries each, in horrible suspense; “see, the columns have halted!”

Dreadful tidings! The guns are embedded in the soft ground,—the horses cannot stir them; one-half of the distance is scarcely won, and there they are beneath the withering cannonade of the Allied guns, powerless and immovable! Cavalry are dismounted, and the horses harnessed to the teams: all in vain! the wheels sink deeper in the miry earth. And now the enemy have found out the range, and their shot are sweeping through the dense mass with frightful slaughter. Again the aides-de-camp hasten to the rear for orders. But Ney can wait no longer; he launches his cavalry at the foe, and orders up the infantry to follow.

Meanwhile a great cloud of cavalry issues from the Allied lines, and directs its course towards the flank of the column: the Emperor sees the danger, and despatches one of his staff to prepare them to receive cavalry. Too late! too late!—the snowdrift has concealed the advance, and the wild horsemen of the desert ride down on the brave ranks. Disorder and confusion ensue; the column breaks and scatters. The lancers pursue the fugitives through the plain; and before the very eyes of the Emperor, the Guard—his Guard—are sabred and routed.

“What is to become of our cavalry?” is now the cry, for they have advanced unsupported against the village. Dreadful moment of suspense! None can see them; the guns lie deserted, alike by friend and foe. Who dares approach them now? “They are cheering yonder,” exclaimed an officer: “I hear them again.”

“Hussars, to the front!” calls out DamrÉmont,—“to your comrades' rescue! Men, yonder!” and he points in the direction of the village.

Like an eagle on the swoop, the swift squadrons skim the plain, and mount the slope beyond it. The drift clears, and what a spectacle is before us! The cavalry are dismounted; their horses, dead or dying, cumber the ground; the men, sabre in hand, have attacked the village by assault. Two of the enemy's guns are taken and turned against them, and the walls are won in many places. An opening in the enclosure of a farmyard admits our leading squadron, and in an instant we have taken them in flank and rear.

The Russians will neither retreat nor surrender, and the carnage is awful; for though overpowered by numbers, they still continue the slaughter, and deal death while dying. The chief farmhouse of the village has been carried by our troops, but the enemy still holds the garden: the low hedge offers a slight obstacle, and over it we dash, and down upon them ride the gallant Tenth with cheers of victory.

At this instant the crashing sound of cannon-shot among masonry is heard. It is the Allied artillery, which, regardless of their own troops, has opened on the village. Every discharge tells; the range is at quarter distance, and whole files fall at every fire. The trumpet sounds a retreat; and I am endeavoring to collect my scattered followers, when my eye falls on the aigulet of a general officer among the heap of dead; and at the same time I perceive that some old and gallant officer has fallen sword in hand, for his long white hair is strewn loosely across his face.

I spring down from my horse and push back the snowy locks, and with a shriek of horror I recognize the friend of my heart,—General d'Auvergne. I lift him in my arms, and search for the wound. Alas! a grapeshot had torn through his chest, and cut asunder that noble heart whose every beat was honor. Though still warm, no ray of life remained: the hand I had so often grasped in friendship, I wrung now in the last energy of despair, and fell upon the corpse in the agony of my grief.

The night was falling fast. All was still around me; none remained near; the village was deserted. The deafening din of the cannonade continued, and at times some straggling shot crashed through the crumbling walls, and brought them thundering to the earth; but all had fled. By the pale crescent of a new moon I dug a grave beneath the ruined wall of the farmhouse. The labor was long and tedious; but my breaking heart took no note of time. My task completed, I sat down beside the grave, and taking his now cold hand in mine, pressed it to my lips. Oh, could I have shared that narrow bed of clay, what rapture would it have brought to my sorrowing soul! I lifted the body and laid it gently in the earth; and as I arose, I found that something had entangled itself in my uniform, and held me. It seemed a locket, which he wore by a ribbon round his neck. I detached it from its place, and put it in my bosom. One lock of the snowy hair I severed from his noble head, and then covered up the grave. “Adieu forever!” I muttered, as I wandered from the spot.

It was the death of a true D'Auvergne,—“on the field of battle!”