Montholon.  “Le lache!  Un Francais meurt, mais il ne recule jamais.”

Napoleon.—­“STUPIDE!  Don’t you see why the retreat was ordered?—­don’t you know that it was a feint on the part of Gahagan to draw Holkar from his impregnable intrenchments?  Don’t you know that the ignorant Indian fell into the snare, and issuing from behind the cover of his guns, came down with his cavalry on the plains in pursuit of Lake and his dragoons?  Then it was that the Englishmen turned upon him; the hardy children of the north swept down his feeble horsemen, bore them back to their guns, which were useless, entered Holkar’s intrenchments along with his troops, sabred the artillerymen at their pieces, and won the battle of Delhi!”

As the Emperor spoke, his pale cheek glowed red, his eye flashed fire, his deep clear voice rung as of old when he pointed out the enemy from beneath the shadow of the Pyramids, or rallied his regiments to the charge upon the death-strewn plain of Wagram.  I have had many a proud moment in my life, but never such a proud one as this; and I would readily pardon the word “coward,” as applied to me by Montholon, in consideration of the testimony which his master bore in my favor.

“Major,” said the Emperor to me in conclusion, “why had I not such a man as you in my service?  I would have made you a Prince and a Marshal!” and here he fell into a reverie, of which I knew and respected the purport.  He was thinking, doubtless, that I might have retrieved his fortunes; and indeed I have very little doubt that I might.

Very soon after, coffee was brought by Monsieur Marchand, Napoleon’s valet-de-chambre, and after partaking of that beverage, and talking upon the politics of the day, the Emperor withdrew, leaving me deeply impressed by the condescension he had shown in this remarkable interview.

CHAPTER III.

A peep into Spain—­account of the origin and services of the Ahmednuggar irregulars.

Head quarters, Morella, Sept. 16, 1838.

I have been here for some months, along with my young friend Cabrera:  and in the hurry and bustle of war—­daily on guard and in the batteries for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four, with fourteen severe wounds and seven musket-balls in my body—­it may be imagined that I have had little time to think about the publication of my memoirs.  Inter arma silent leges—­in the midst of fighting be hanged to writing! as the poet says; and I never would have bothered myself with a pen, had not common gratitude incited me to throw off a few pages.