‘As she spoke, a cavalry detachment was seen coming up the valley at a canter. A few minutes more and she would be discovered. I knew too well the ruffian natures of the soldiery to hazard such a risk. I caught her to my arms with one last embrace, and the next moment dashed down the path towards the dragoons. I turned my head once, but she was gone; the peasant guide had left the breach of the chasm, and they both were lost to my view.
‘My story is now soon told. I was tried by a court-martial, honourably acquitted, and restored to my grade—en retraite, however, for my wound had disabled me from active service. For three years I lived in retirement near Mayence, the sad memory of one unhappy event embittering every hour of my life.
‘In the early part of 1809 a strong division of the French army, commanded by my old friend and companion Lefebvre, entered Mayence, on their way to Austria; and as my health was now restored, I yielded to his persuasion to join his staff as first aide-de-camp. Indeed, a carelessness and indifference to my fortune had made me submit to anything, and I assented to every arrangement of the general, as if I were totally unconcerned in it all. I need not trace the events of that rapid and brilliant campaign. I will only remark that Eckmühl and Ratisbon both brought back all the soldier’s ardour to my heart; and once more the crash of battle, and the din of marching columns, aroused my dormant enthusiasm.
‘In the month of April, a corps d’armée of twenty thousand men entered the Tyrol, and pushed forward to the Niederwald, where Lefebvre had his headquarters. I cannot stay to speak of the terrible scenes of that period, the most fearful in the spirit of resistance that ever our arms encountered. Detachments were cut off every day; whole columns disappeared, and never again were heard of; no bivouac was safe from a nightly attack, and even the sentinels at the gates of Innspruck were repeatedly found dead on their posts. But, worse than all, daily instances occurred of assassination by peasants, who sometimes dressed as sutlers entered the camp, and took the opportunity to stab or shoot our officers, caring nothing, as it seemed, for the certain death that awaited them. These became of such frequent occurrence that scarce a report did not contain one or two such casualties, and consequently every precaution that could be thought of was adopted; and every peasant taken with arms—in a country, too, where none are unarmed—was shot without trial of any kind whatever. That little mercy, or indeed justice, was meted out to the people, I need only say that Girardon was commandant of the garrison, and daily inspected the executions on parade.
‘It happened that one morning this savage old officer was stabbed by an Austrian peasant, who had long been employed as a camp servant and trusted in situations of considerable confidence. The man was immediately led out for execution to the Platz, where was another prisoner,—a poor boy found rambling within the lines, and unable to give any account of his presence there. Girardon, however, was only slightly wounded, and countermanded the the execution of his assassin, not from motives of forgiveness, but in order to defer it till he was himself able to be present and witness it. And upon me, as next in command, devolved the melancholy duty of being present on the parade. The brief note I received from Girardon, reminded me of a former instance of weakness on my part, and contained a sneering hope that I ‘had learned some portion of a soldier’s duty, since I was reduced to the ranks at Strasbourg.’
“When I reached the Platz, I found the officers of the Staff in the middle of the square, where a table was placed, on which the order for the execution was lying, awaiting my signature.
“‘The prisoner begs a word with the officer in command,’ said the orderly serjeant.
“‘I cannot accede to his request.’ said I, trembling from head to foot, and knowing how totally such an interview would unman me.
“‘He implores it, sir, with the utmost earnestness, and says he has some important secret to reveal before his death.’
“‘The old story—anything for five minutes more of life and sun-shine,’ said an officer beside me.