Joseph in the camp on the left. The soldier looked at him with a
beseeching air and gesture, singing in a most sentimental tone, "Come,
oh, come, to my aid." His Majesty could not help smiling, and made signs
to the soldier to approach, which the poor fellow did, after extricating
himself with great difficulty. "What is your regiment"--"Sire, the First
of the Guard."--"How long have you been a soldier?"--"Since you have been
Emperor, Sire."--"Indeed, that is not a long time! It is not long enough
for me to make you an officer, is it? But conduct yourself well, and I
will have you made sergeant-major. After that, the cross and epaulets on
the first battlefield. Are you content?"--"Yes, Sire."--"Chief of
Staff," continued the Emperor, addressing General Berthier, "take the
name of this young man. You will give him three hundred francs to clean
his pantaloons and repair his wheelbarrow." And his Majesty rode on in
the midst of the acclamations of the soldiers.

At the inside extremity of the port, there was a wooden bridge which they
called the Service bridge. The powder magazines were behind it,
containing an immense amount of ammunition; and after nightfall no one
was allowed to go upon this bridge without giving the countersign to the
second sentinel, for the first always allowed him to pass. He was not
allowed to pass back again, however; for if any person entering the
bridge was ignorant of the countersign, or had happened to forget it, he
was stopped by the second sentinel, and the first sentinel at the head of
the bridge had express orders to pass his bayonet through the body of the
rash man if he was unable to answer the questions of this last sentinel.
These rigorous precautions were rendered necessary by the vicinity of
these terrible powder magazines, which a single spark might blow up, and
with it the town, the fleet, and the two camps.

At night the port was closed with the big chain I have mentioned, and the
wharves were picketed by sentinels placed fifteen paces from each other.
Each quarter of an hour they called, "Sentinels, look out!" And the
soldiers of the marine, placed in the topsails, replied to this by,
"All's well," pronounced in a drawling, mournful tone. Nothing could be
more monotonous or depressing than this continual murmur, this lugubrious
mingling of voices all in the same tone, especially as those making these
cries endeavored to make them as inspiring as possible.

Women not residing in