“There, sir, that letter belongs to you,” he said.  “There is enough in it to make your conduct the matter of a court-martial; but I am satisfied that a warning will be sufficient.  I need hardly say that you will not receive the Cross of the Legion.”

I glanced at the letter, and realised Duchesne’s treachery.  Knowing that all doubtful letters were opened and read by the authorities, he had sent me a letter bitterly attacking the emperor, and professing to regard me as a royalist conspirator.

Exasperated, I drew my sword.

“I resign, sir,” I said.  “The career I can no longer follow honourably and independently, I shall follow no more.”

With a half-broken heart and faltering step, I regained my quarters; the whole dream of life was over.  Broken in spirit, I made my way slowly back through Germany to Paris, and back to Ireland.

IV.—­The Call of the Sword

On reaching my native country I found that my brother had died, and that I had inherited an income of L4,000 a year.  I sought to forget the past.  But a time came when I could resist the temptation no longer, and the first fact I read of was the burning of Moscow.  As misfortune followed misfortune, an impulse came to me that it was useless to resist.  My heart was among the glittering squadrons of France.  I thought suddenly, was this madness?  And the thought was followed by a resolve as sudden.  I wrote some lines to my agent, saddled my horse, and rode away.  At Verviers I offered my sword to the emperor as an old officer, and went forward in charge of a squadron to Brienne.  This place was held by the Prussians, and Bluecher and his Prussians were near at hand.  Once more I beheld the terrific spectacle of an attack by the army of Napoleon.  But alas! the attack was vain; I heard the trumpet sound a retreat.  And as I turned, I saw the body of an aged general officer among a heap of slain.  With a shriek of horror, I recognized the friend of my heart, General d’Auvergne.  Round his neck he wore a locket with a portrait of his wife—­Marie de Meudon.  I detached the locket, and bade the dead a last adieu.

Why should I dwell on a career of disaster?  Retreat followed retreat, until the fate of Napoleon’s empire depended on the capture of the bridge of Montereau.  Regiment after regiment strove to cross, only to be shattered and mangled by the tremendous fire of the enemy.  Four sappers at length laid a petard beneath the gate at the other side of the bridge.  But the fuse went out.

“This to the man who lights the fuse!” cried Napoleon, holding up his great Cross of the Legion.

I snatched a burning match from a gunner beside me, and rushed across the bridge.  Partly protected by the high projecting parapet, I lit the fuse, and then fell, shot in the chest.  My senses reeled; for a time I knew nothing; then I felt a flask pressed to my lips.  I looked up, and saw Minette.  “Dear, dear girl, what a brave heart is thine!” said I, as she pressed her handkerchief to my wound.