great
coat, his face pale and haggard from hardship and heartbreak, his body
weak and wasted from long illness and long captivity, stood on the top
of a ridge of the hill called Mont Rachais, overlooking the walled town
of Grenoble, on the right bank of the Isere. The Fifth-of-the-Line had
been stationed there before in one of the infrequent periods of peace
during the Napoleonic era. He was familiar with the place and he knew
exactly where to look for what he expected to see.

More ragged and tattered, more travel-stained indeed, and with only the
semblance of a uniform left, was the young lad who stood by the
soldier's side. But the boy was in good health and looked strong and
sturdy.

"There," said the officer. "You see that square bulk of buildings
against the wall beyond the Cathedral church-tower and over the Palais
de Justice?"

"I see them, my officer," answered the other, shading his hand and
staring over the roofs and walls and spires of the compact little town.

"The barracks will be there unless the regiment has moved. That will
be the end of our journey."

"The building with the flag, you mean, monsieur?" asked Pierre.

"That one."

Alas! the flag was no longer the tricolor but the white flag of ancient
royal France. Marteau heaved a deep sigh as he stared at it with sad
eyes and sadder face.

The unexpected, that is, from the young soldier's point of view, had
happened. The empire was no more. The allies had triumphed. The
Emperor has been beaten. He had abdicated and gone. He was
practically a prisoner on the little island of Elba, adjacent to that
greater island of Corsica, where he had been born. The great circle of
his life had been completed. And all the achievements were to be
comprehended between those two little islands in the blue
Mediterranean--from Corsica to Elba, the phrase ran. Was that all?

Much water had flowed under the bridges of Europe since that mad ride
of the infantry in the farm wagons to face Schwarzenberg after their
smashing and successful attacks upon Bluecher, although the intervening
time had been short. A year had scarcely elapsed, but that twelve
months had been crowded with incident, excitement, and vivid interest
almost unparalleled by any similar period in modern history. The
Emperor had, indeed, fought hard for his throne and against heavy odds.
He had fought against indifference, against carelessness, against
negligence, last of all against t