eror, that I felt somewhat struck by the remark he made, that, while
'Napoleon did meet unquestionably many instances of deep ingratitude
from those whom he had covered with honours and heaped with favours,
nothing ever equalled the attachment the officers of the army generally
bore to his person, and the devotion they felt for his glory and his
honour. It was not a sentiment,' he said, 'it was a religious belief
among the young men of my day that the Emperor could do no wrong. What
you assume in your country by courtesy, we believed _de facto_. So many
times had events, seeming most disastrous, turned out pregnant with
advantage and success, that a dilemma was rather a subject of amusing
speculation amongst us than a matter of doubt and despondency. There
came a terrible reverse to all this, however,' continued he, as his
voice fell to a lower and sadder key; 'a fearful lesson was in store for
us. Poor Aubuisson----'

'Aubuisson!' said I, starting; 'was that the name you mentioned?'

'Yes,' said he, in amazement; 'have you heard the story, then?'

'No,' said I, 'I know of no story; it was the name alone struck me.
Was it not one of that name who was mentioned in one of Bonaparte's
despatches from Egypt?'

'To be sure it was, and the same man too; he was the first in the
trenches at Alexandria; he carried off a Mameluke chief his prisoner at
the battle of the Pyramids.'

'What manner of man was he?'

'A powerful fellow, one of the largest of his regiment, and they were
a Grenadier battalion; he had black hair and black moustache, which he
wore long and drooping, in Egyptian fashion.'

'The same, the very same!' cried I, carried away by my excitement.

'What do you mean?' said the colonel; 'you've never seen him, surely; he
died at Charenton the same year Waterloo was fought.'

'No such thing,' said I, feeling convinced that Lazare was the person.
'I saw him alive much later'; and with that I related the story I have
told my reader, detailing minutely every little particular which might
serve to confirm my impression of the identity.

'No, no,' said the vicomte, shaking his head, 'you must be mistaken;
Aubuisson was a patient at Charenton for ten years, when he died. The
circumstances you mention are certainly both curious and strange, but I
cannot think they have any connection with the fortunes of poor Lazare;
at all events, if you like to hear the story, come home with me, and I
'll tell it; the cafe is abo