We alighted from our carriage and passed through the basement-passage of the palace into the garden.  We walked to the further end, encountering people who had heard the shouting and were hurrying to ascertain its meaning.  At a bend of the path we met Mr. Crawford, our Minister at Paris, with Mr. Erving, U.S.  Minister to Spain, and they eagerly inquired, “What news?” My father turned, and, walking back with them a few steps to where the building was visible, pointed to the standard at its summit.  Nothing more was necessary.  It told the whole story.

I left them and hurried back to the institution to which I belonged.  I was anxious to relate the events of the day, and, as I was the only one of the pupils who had witnessed them, I had a welcome which might well have excited the jealousy of the Emperor.  As far as the school was concerned, I certainly divided honors with him that evening.  It was, however, a limited copartnership, and expired at bedtime.

Napoleon entered the city about eight o’clock that night.  We were nearly two miles from his line of progress, but we could distinctly trace it by the roar of voices, which sounded like a continuous roll of distant thunder.

I saw him, two days after, at a window of the Tuileries.  I stopped directly under the building, where twenty or thirty persons had assembled, who were crying out for him with what seemed to me most presumptuous familiarity.  They called him “Little Corporal,”—­“Corporal of the Violet,”—­said they wanted to see him, and that he must come to the window.  He looked out twice during the half-hour I staid there, had on the little cocked hat which has become historical, smiled and nodded good-naturedly, and seemed to consider that something was due from him to the “many-headed” at that particular time.  Such condescension was not expected or given in his palmy days, but he felt now his dependence on the people, and had been brought nearer to them by misfortune.

It was said, at the time, that he was much elated on his arrival, but that he grew reserved, if not depressed, as his awful responsibility became more and more apparent.  He had hoped for a division in the Allied Councils, but they were firm and united, and governed only by the unalterable determination to overwhelm and destroy him.  He saw that his sole reliance was on the chances of war; that he had to encounter enemies whose numbers were inexhaustible, and who, having once dethroned him, would no longer be impeded by the terror of his name.  There was, besides, no time to recruit his diminished battalions, or to gather the munitions of war.  The notes of preparation sounded over Europe, and already the legions of his foes were hastening to encircle France with a cordon of steel.  The scattered relics of the “Grand Army” which had erected and sustained his empire were hastily collected, and, as they in turn reached Paris, were reviewed on the Carrousel and sent forward to concentre on the battle-ground