The dejection was but the shadow of the last approaching disaster.
On the night of the 27th January, the cavalry brigade with which I was received orders to march by the Forest of Bar on Brienne, where Blücher was stationed in no expectation of being attacked. The movement, notwithstanding the heavy roads, was made with great rapidity; and by noon on the following day we came up with the main body of the army in full march against the enemy.
Then once more did I recognize the old spirit of the army. Joyous songs and gay cheers were heard from the different corps we passed. The announcement of a speedy meeting with the Prussians had infused new vigor among the troops. We were emerging from the deep shade of the wood into a valley, where a light infantry regiment were bivouacked. Their fires were formed in a wide circle, and the cooking went merrily on, amid the pleasant song and jocund cries.
Our own brief halt was just concluded, when the bugles sounded to resume the march; and I stood for a moment admiring the merry gambols of the infantry, when an air I well remembered was chanted forth in full chorus. But my memory was not left long in doubt as to where and how these sounds were first heard. The wild uproar at once recalled both, as they sang out,—
“Hurrah for the Faubourg of St. Antoine!”
No sooner did I hear the words, than I spurred my horse forward and rode down towards them.
“What regiment's yours, Comrade?” said I, to a fellow hurrying to the ranks.
“The Fifth, mon officier,” said he, “Voltigeurs of the Line.”
“Have you a certain François, a maître d'armes, still among you?”
“Yes, that we have. There he is yonder, beating time to the roulade.”