In the intense interest which chained me to this part of the field, I had not noticed till this moment that the Emperor and his staff were standing scarcely thirty yards from where I was. Napoleon, seated upon a gray, almost white, Arabian, had suffered the reins to fall loosely on the neck as he held with both hands his telescope to his eye; his dress, the usual green coat with white facings, the uniform of the chasseurs à cheval, was distinguished merely by the cross of the legion; his high boots were splashed and mud-stained from riding through the deep and clayey soil; his compact and clean-bred charger looked also slightly blown and heated, but he himself, and I watched his features well, looked calm, composed, and tranquil. How anxiously did I scrutinize that face; with what a throbbing heart did I canvass every gesture, hoping to find some passing trait of doubt, of difficulty, or of hesitation; but none was there. Unlike one who looked upon the harrowing spectacle of the battle-field, whose all was depending on the game before him; gambling with one throw his last his only stake, and that the empire of the world. Yet, could I picture to myself one who felt at peace within himself,—naught of reproach, naught of regret to move or stir his spirit, whose tranquil barque had glided over the calm sea of life, unruffled by the breath of passion,—I should have fancied such was he.
Beside him sat one whose flashing eye and changing features looked in every way his opposite; watching with intense anxiety the scene of the deadly struggle round the château, every look, every gesture told the changing fortune of the moment; his broad and brawny chest glittered with orders and decorations, but his heavy brow and lowering look, flushed almost black with excitement, could not easily be forgotten. It was Soult, who, in his quality of major-general, accompanied the Emperor throughout the day.
“They have lost it again, Sire,” said the marshal, passionately; “and see, they are forming beneath the cross-fire of the artillery; the head of the column keeps not its formation two minutes together; why does he not move up?”
“Domont, you know the British; what troops are those in the orchard? They use the bayonet well.”
The officer addressed pointed his glass for a moment to the spot. Then, turning to the Emperor, replied, as he touched his hat, “They are the Guards, Sire.”
During this time Napoleon spoke not a word; his eye ever bent upon the battle, he seemed to pay little if any attention to the conversation about him. As he looked, an aide-de-camp, breathless and heated, galloped up.
“The columns of attack are formed, Sire; everything is ready, and the marshal only waits the order.”
Napoleon turned upon his saddle, and directing his glass towards Ney’s Division, looked fixedly for some moments at them. His eye moved from front to rear slowly, and at last, carrying his telescope along the line, he fixed it steadily upon the far left. Here, towards St. Lambert, a slight cloud seemed to rest on the horizon, as the Emperor continued to gaze steadfastly at it. Every glass of the staff was speedily turned in that direction.
“It is nothing but a cloud; some exhalation from the low grounds in that quarter,” whispered one.
“To me,” said another, “they look like trees, part of the Bois de Wavre.”