excited throng, who, to his repeated exclamation, "Gentlemen, gentlemen, let me walk!"-returned no other answer than "Vive l'Empereur! And so up the grand staircase, through the Salle de Maréchaux and the Gallerie de Diane, wearing his petit chapeau and his travel-stained gray greatcoat, surrounded by tumultuous shouts and glittering uniforms and waving handkerchiefs and wreaths of flowers, the great Imperial Conqueror was borne to the doors of his apartment. And thus was fulfilled the prophecy of the Imperial bulletin: "La victoire marchera au pas de charge. L'Aigle avec les Couleurs Nationales volera de clocher en clocher, jusqu'aux tours de Notre Dame!" And thus was Louis-Stanislas-Xavier de Bourbon dethroned, and thus was the Emperor Napoleon re-established, to reign-one hundred days. CHAPTER XXXIV À WATERLOO To arms! to arms! ye men of might; The first and foremost in the fight Are sure to win the day! -BENJAMIN, To Arms. CAPTAIN PIERRE PASQUIN had followed the Emperor on his surprisingly triumphant march from Grenoble to Paris, and then, after the Guard had been reorganized, he was stationed for a time in barracks at Courbevoie. There were three battalions at the barracks and every month a battalion took its turn on duty in Paris. The duty was an active one too-eight hours on guard, two hours on patrol, and the grand rounds at night. But as may be surmised, a captain did not have all that. On the 4th of June they were ordered to Avesnes, and on the 13th they advanced to Charleroi. It was a glorious morning when they left Avesnes, one of those mornings when the blood leaps lightly, the heart beats hopefully, and nature sings her pæans. The grenadiers wound along the road, a long blue line checkered by white belts and shaded by tassel-tossing shakos. The crests of the cuirassiers flared crimson and their corselets burned and blazed; the whitehorsed artillery racked and rumbled; the chevaux-légers with light hoofs champed the highway; while in the van, rubricking the green horizon with a dash of gold and blood, rode those glorious, dauntless braggarts, the Bercheny Hussars. Pierre watched their fluttering pennons, now lost amid the boughs and branches of the ravine, now war-welcoming upon the white road of the ridge. From time to time their song swelled to him, and his heart caught the cadence: Strap the saddles! bit the bridles! toss the fetlocks in the sun! Let the clarions loudly clamor! let the bugles sternly stun! Like the banging, bellowing bison now we roaring ramping run, And we'll fight for fame with fury for the great Napoleon. En avant the voltigeurs! en avant the grenadiers! Strap the saddles! bit the bridles! toss the fetlocks in the sun! Let the clarions loudly clamor! let the bugles sternly stun! Like the banging, bellowing bison now we roaring ramping run, And we'll war with hell or heaven for the great Napoleon. "François," cried Pierre, "the Bercheny have it! The Emperor or death!" "Yes," said François, shifting his quid, "we want the Little Corporal. Europe says No. To hell with Europe!" A statesman would have expressed it differently, but François was no statesman. Thus these brave fellows, one hundred and twenty thousand hearts, epic in fidelity to the man who spent their lives, marched-to Waterloo. Plain of Belgium near Brussels, the deeds done on you upon the 18th of June, 1815, have made you world-famous through all ages. For England you are a synonym of glory, triumph and "king-making victory," and they call you-Waterloo. For France you are a synonym of ruin, rout, annihilation, and chaos universal, and they call you-Mont St. Jean. "And while, in fashion picturesque, The poet rhymes of blood and blows, Describes the same in classic prose." And so of you great men have writ and poets sung. And through the pages of Sibourne, Charras, Chesney, Jomini, Alison, Ropes, Thiers, and Dorsey Gardner— through the mighty Hugo's "Les Misérables," and the "Childe Harold" of that great "Napoleon of the realms of Rhyme," George Gordon, world-thrilling as Lord Byron-the earthquaking shouts of your contending hosts resound. Read them, good reader, if you would see Napoleon on the heights at Ligny, or Ney at Quatre-Bras, or Jérôme's battalions battling at Hougomont, or the Scotch Grays charging, or the brave Picton Brigade under fire, or the “Iron Duke " holding his wavering lines, or the wildly-dashing onsets of the Imperial cuirassiers, or the Old Guard, with their, "Ave! Caesar Imperator, morituri te salutamus," making their "vainly-glorious charge." Waterloo! Who thinks of it as a victory? It has become a synonym for defeat, because the vanquished was greater than the victor. CHAPTER XXXV FACE TO FACE! La fortune est toujours pour les gros bataillons. -Sévigné. WHAT has become of Jean Deteau whom we last saw in the carriage of M. de Vaudrecourt, procureurdu-roi? He had transformed himself into a Bonapartist again by the time he reached the Hotel de Ville, and through the influence of two friends in Paris-MM. de Vilette and de Romontte-he got himself appointed to the staff of General de Bourmont, an ancient royalist, who had been vouched for by the Marshal Ney. The Marshal found himself mistaken in his protégé, however, for at the opening of the campaign, de Bourmont deserted to the enemy, carrying all his staff with him. "Eh bien! Monsieur le Maréchal, what have you to say for your General de Bourmont?" said the Emperor when he heard the news. "I would have vouched for him as for myself, sire." "Blue is always blue and white is always white," replied His Majesty. Nor did de Bourmont and his staff receive a cordial greeting from the Prussians, for the blunt von Blücher, when an aide-de-camp called his attention to de Bourmont and his white cockade, exclaimed, "Einerlei, |