“General d'Auvergne's, Sire.”
“True. D'Auvergne, a word with you.”
He turned and whispered something to the old general, who during the whole colloquy stood at his back, anxious but not daring to interpose a word.
“Well, well,” said Napoleon, in a voice of much kinder accent, “I am satisfied. Your general, sir, reports favorably of your zeal and capacity. I do not desire to let your former conduct prove any bar to your advancement; and on his recommendation, of which I trust you may prove yourself worthy, I name you to a troop in your own regiment.”
“And still to serve on my staff?” said the general, half questioning the Emperor.
“As you wish it, D'Auvergne.”
With that he moved forward ere I could do more than express my gratitude by a respectful bow.
“I told you, Burke, the time would come for this,” said D'Auvergne, as he pressed my hand warmly, and followed the cortege of the Emperor.
Hitherto I had lived an almost isolated life. My staff duties had so separated me from my brother officers that I only knew them by name; while the other aides-de-camp of the general were men much older than myself, and with none of them had I formed any intimacy whatever. It was not without a sense of this loneliness that I now thought over my promotion. The absence of those who sympathize with our moments of joy and sorrow reduces our enjoyment to a narrow limit indeed. The only one of all I knew who would really have felt happy in my advancement was poor Pioche. He was beyond every thought of pleasure or grief.
Thus reflecting, I turned towards my quarters at Brunn. It was evening: the watchfires were lighted, and round them sat groups of soldiers at their supper, chatting away pleasantly, and recounting the events of the battle. Many had been slightly wounded, and by their bandaged foreheads and disabled arms claimed a marked pre-eminence above the rest. A straw bivouac, with its great blazing fire in front, would denote some officer's quarters; and here were generally some eight or ten assembled, while the savory odor of some smoking dish, and the merry laughter, proclaimed that feasting was not excluded from the life of a campaign.