“But still,” said I, “the army scarcely performed their devoir—not, at least, as French troops understand devoir—where their hearts are engaged.‘’
“You are mistaken again,” said he. “Save in a few companies of the line, never did troops behave better: four entire squadrons of one regiment were cut to pieces at the end of the Rue Royale; two infantry regiments were actually annihilated at the Hôtel de Ville. For eight hours, at the Place du Carrousel, we had no ammunition, while the insurgents poured in a most murderous fire: so was it along the Quai Voltaire.”
“I have heard,” said I, “that the Duc de Raguse lost his head completely.”
“I can assure you, sir, they who say so calumniate him,” was the calm reply. “Never before that day was a Marshal of France called upon to fight an armed host, without soldiers and without ammunition.”
“His fate would induce us to be superstitious, and believe in good luck. Never was there a man more persecuted by ill fortune!”
“I perceive they are shutting the gates,” said my companion, rising; “these worthy Meranersare of the very earliest to retire for the night.” And so saying, and with a “Good night,” so hastily uttered as to forbid further converse, my companion withdrew, while I wandered slowly back to my Inn, curious to learn who he might be, and if I should ever chance upon him again.
I heard a voice this morning on the bridge, so exactly like that of my companion of last night, that I could not help starting. The speaker was a very large and singularly handsome man, who, though far advanced in life, walked with a stature as erect, and an air as assured, as he could have worn in youth. Large bushy eye-brows, black as jet, although his hair was perfectly white, shaded eyes of undimmed brilliancy—he was evidently “some one,” the least observant could not pass him without this conviction. I asked a stranger who he was, and received for answer, “Marshal Marmont—he comes here almost every autumn.”