nnes, do you know me?"--"Yes, Sire; you are losing your best friend."
--"No! no! you will live. Can you not answer for his life, M.
Larrey?" The wounded soldiers hearing his Majesty speak thus, tried to
rise on their elbows, and cried, "Vive l'Empereur!"

The surgeons carried the marshal to a little village called Ebersdorf, on
the bank of the river, and near the field of battle. At the house of a
brewer they found a room over a stable where the heat was stifling, and
was rendered still more unendurable from the odor of the corpses by which
the house was surrounded.

But as no other place could be found, it was necessary to make the best
of it. The marshal bore the amputation of his limb with heroic courage;
but the fever which came on immediately was so violent that, fearing he
would die under the operation, the surgeons postponed cutting off his
other leg. This fever was caused partly by exhaustion, for at the time
he was wounded the marshal had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours.
Finally Messieurs Larrey,

[Baron Dominique Jean Larrey, eminent surgeon, born at
Bagneres-de -Bigorre, 1766. Accompanied Napoleon to Egypt.
Surgeon-in-chief of the grand army, 1812. Wounded and taken
prisoner at Waterloo. In his will the Emperor styles him the best
man he had ever known. Died 1842.]

Yvan, Paulet, and Lannefranque decided on the second amputation; and
after this had been performed the quiet condition of the wounded man made
them hopeful of saving his life. But it was not to be. The fever
increased, and became of a most alarming character; and in spite of the
attentions of these skillful surgeons, and of Doctor Frank, then the most
celebrated physician in Europe, the marshal breathed his last on the 31st
of May, at five o'clock in the morning, barely forty years of age.

During his week of agony (for his sufferings may be called by that name)
the Emperor came often to see him, and always left in deep distress. I
also went to see the marshal each day for the Emperor, and admired the
patience with which he endured these sufferings, although he had no hope;
for he knew well that he was dying, and saw these sad tidings reflected
in every face. It was touching and terrible to see around his house, his
door, in his chamber even, these old grenadiers of the guard, always
stolid and unmoved till now, weeping and sobbing like children. What an
atrocious thing war seems at such moments.

The evening before his de