s a levee, and our final
orders will then be given."

The old general rallied at the last few words he spoke, and pressing my
hand affectionately, wished me goodnight, and withdrew; while I, with a
mind confused and stunned, sat thinking over the melancholy story he had
related, and sorrowing over the misfortunes of one whose lot in life had
been far sadder than my own.

CHAPTER XLII. THE HALL OF THE MARSHALS

Some minutes before noon we entered the Place du Carrousel, now thronged
with equipages and led horses. Officers in the rich uniforms of every arm
of the service were pressing their way to the Palace, amid the crash of
carriages, the buzz of recognitions, and the thundering sounds of the
brass band, whose echo was redoubled beneath the vaulted vestibule of
the Palace.

Borne along with the torrent, we mounted the wide stair and passed
from room to room, until we arrived at the great antechamber where the
officers of the household were assembled in their splendid dresses. Here
the crowd was so dense we were unable to move on for some time, and
it was after nearly an hour's waiting that we at last found ourselves
within that gorgeous gallery named by the Emperor "La Salle des
Marechaux." At any other moment my attention had been riveted upon
the magnificence and beauty of this great _salon_--its pictures, its
gildings, the richness of the hangings, the tasteful elegance of the
ceiling, with its tracery of dull gold, the great works of art in bronze
and marble that adorned it on every side,--but now my mind took another
and very different range. Here around me were met the greatest generals
and warriors of Europe,--the names second alone to his who had no equal.
There stood Ney, with his broad, retiring forehead, and his eyes black
and flashing, like an eagle's. With what energy he spoke! how full of
passionate vigor that thick and rapid utterance, that left a tremulous
quivering on his lip even when he ceased to speak! What a contrast to
the bronzed, unmoved features of the large man he addressed, and who
listened to him with such deference of manner: his yellow mustache
bespeaks not the Frenchman; he is a German, by blood at least,--for it
is Kellerman, the colonel of the curassiers of the Guard. And yonder was
Soult, with his strong features seamed by many a day of hardship,
the centre of a group of colonels of the staff to whom he was rapidly
communicating their orders. Close beside him stood Lannes, his