e chateau at Brienne
the whole night long, dreading lest the enemy should be on his track.
He whose battles were wont to be the ovations of a conqueror, now beheld
with joy his masses retiring unpursued.

Why should I dwell on a career of disaster, or linger on the expiring
moments of a mighty Empire? Of what avail now are the reinforcements
which arrived to our aid,--the veteran legions of the Peninsula? The cry
is ever, "Too late! too late!" Dreadful words, heard at every moment!
sad omens of an army devoted and despairing!

From Brienne we retreat to Troyes; from thence to Bar-sur-Aube,--ever
nearer and nearer to that capital to which the Allies tend with wild
shouts of triumph. On the last day of February our headquarters are at
Nogent, not thirty leagues from Paris,--Nogent, with the great forest
of Fontainebleau on its left; and Meaux, the ancient bishopric of the
Monarchy, on its right; and behind that screen, Paris!

Leaving Bourmont in command of the line which holds the Austrians in
check, the Emperor himself hastens to oppose Bluecher,--the most intrepid
and the most daring of all his enemies. A cross-march in the depth of
winter, with the ground covered with half-frozen snow, will bring him
on the flank of the Prussian army. It is dared! Dangers and difficulties
beset every step; the artillery are almost lost, the cavalry exhausted.
But the cry of "The enemy!" rouses every energy: they debouch on the
plain of Champ-Aubert, to fall on the moving column of the Russians
under Alsufief. Glorious stroke of fate! Victory again caresses the
spoiled child of fortune: the enemy is routed, and retires on Montmirail
and Chalons. The advanced army of the Prussians hear the cannonade, and
fall back to support the Allies on Montmirail. But the Emperor already
awaits them with the battalions of the Old Guard, and another great
battle ends in victory. Areola and Rivoli were again remembered, and
recalled by victories not less glorious; and once more hope returned to
the ranks it seemed to have quitted forever. Another dreadful blow is
aimed at Blucher's columns; Marmont attacks them at Vaux-Champs, and the
army of Silesia falls back beaten.

And now the Emperor hastens towards Nogent, where he has left Bourmont
in front of the Austrians. "Too late! too late!" is again the cry,--the
columns of Oudinot and Victor are already in retreat. Schwartzenberg,
with a force triple their own, advances on the plains of the Seine; the