to the field of
battle, and tell him to return to the prince, and inform him what he had
seen. But Albert had smelled powder, and was not willing to leave thus.
He asked permission to wait till he could at least give him the news of
a victory. At that moment a charge of dragoons seemed necessary to the
marshal; he told one of his aides-de-camp to carry the order to charge
to the colonel. The young man started at a gallop, but he had scarcely
gone a third of the distance which separated the hill from the position
of the regiment, when his head was carried off by a cannon-ball.
Scarcely had he fallen from his stirrups when Albert, seizing this
occasion to take part in the battle, set spurs to his horse, transmitted
the order to the colonel, and instead of returning to the marshal, drew
his sword, and charged at the head of the regiment.

This charge was one of the most brilliant of the day, and penetrated so
completely to the heart of the imperial guard that they began to give
way. The marshal had involuntarily watched the young officer throughout
the melee, recognizing him by his uniform. He saw him arrive at the
enemy's standard, engage in a personal contest with him who carried it;
then, when the regiment had taken flight, he saw him returning with his
conquest in his arms. On reaching the marshal he threw the colors at his
feet; opening his mouth to speak, instead of words, it was blood that
came to his lips. The marshal saw him totter in his saddle, and advanced
to support him, but before he had time to do so Albert had fallen; a
ball had pierced his breast. The marshal sprung from his horse, but the
brave young man lay dead on the standard he had just taken. The Duc
d'Orleans arrived the day after the battle. He regretted Albert as one
regrets a gallant gentleman; but, after all, he had died the death of
the brave, in the midst of victory, and on the colors he himself had
taken. What more could be desired by a Frenchman, a soldier, and a
gentleman?

The duke wrote with his own hand to the poor widow. If anything could
console a wife for the death of her husband, it would doubtless be such
a letter; but poor Clarice thought but of one thing, that she had no
longer a husband, and that her child had no longer a father. At four
o'clock Buvat came in from the library; they told him that Clarice
wanted him, and he went down directly. The poor woman did not cry, she
did not complain; she stood tearless and speechless, he