eyes, while a deep sabre-wound had left upon his
cheek a long white scar, giving a most warlike and ferocious look to his
features.

As he sat apart from me for some time, silent and motionless, I could not
help imagining in how many a hard-fought day he had borne a part, for he
evidently, from his age and bearing, had been one of the soldiers of the
empire. I invited him to partake of my bottle of Medoc, by which he
seemed flattered. When the flask became low, and was replaced by
another, he appeared to have lost much of his constrained air, and
seemed forgetting rapidly the suspicious circumstances which he supposed
attached to me--waxed wondrous confidential and communicative, and
condescended to impart some traits of a life which was not without its
vicissitudes, for he had been, as I suspected, one of the "Guarde"--the
old guarde--was wounded at Marengo, and received the croix d'honneur in
the field of Wagram, from the hands of the Emperor himself. The headlong
enthusiasm of attachment to Napoleon, which his brief and stormy career
elicited even from those who suffered long and deeply in his behalf, is
not one of the least singular circumstances which this portion of history
displays. While the rigours of the conscription had invaded every family
in France, from Normandie to La Vendee--while the untilled fields, the
ruined granaries, the half-deserted villages, all attested the
depopulation of the land, those talismanic words, "l'Empereur et la
gloire," by some magic mechanism seemed all-sufficient not only to
repress regret and suffering, but even stimulate pride, and nourish
valour; and even yet, when it might be supposed that like the brilliant
glass of a magic lantern, the gaudy pageant had passed away, leaving only
the darkness and desolation behind it--the memory of those days under the
empire survives untarnished and unimpaired, and every sacrifice of
friends or fortune is accounted but little in the balance when the honour
of La Belle France, and the triumphs of the grand "armee," are weighted
against them. The infatuated and enthusiastic followers of this great
man would seem, in some respects, to resemble the drunkard in the
"Vaudeville," who alleged as his excuse for drinking, that whenever he
was sober his poverty disgusted him. "My cabin," said he, "is a cell, my
wife a mass of old rags, my child a wretched object of misery and malady.
But give me brandy; let me only have that, and then my hut is