CHAPTER V.

A DISASTER--A FAMILY DRAMA--MARSHAL MORTIER--TWENTY-SEVEN DEGREES OF FROST--WE REACH SMOLENSK--A DEN OF THIEVES.

When we got out of the wood, near to a miserable little hamlet called Gara, I saw, a short distance off, one of the posting-houses I have been describing. I pointed it out to one of our sergeants, an Alsatian called Mather, and suggested to him that we should spend the night there, if we could possibly manage to get there first. We set off running, but found on arriving that it was crammed full with officers, men, and horses--about 800 people being there--so that there was not an inch of room for us.

While we were running, first one way and then another, trying to find places, the Imperial column and our own regiment passed, so we decided to spend the night under the horses tied up to the doors. Those who were camped round the house repeatedly tried to pull it down to make fires and shelters with the wood, and to get hold of the straw lying in a sort of loft. Some of this straw was used for beds by those inside the house, and, tightly packed though they were, they even made small fires to warm themselves and cook their horseflesh. They threatened to shoot those outside who tried to pull up the planks of the house. Some who had got on the roof, and had torn off planks, were forced to jump down in danger of their lives.

It might have been perhaps eleven o'clock at night. Some of the unfortunate men were asleep, others were warming their limbs at the fire, when we heard an indistinct noise behind us. Fire had broken out in two places--in the centre and at the other end of the barn. When we tried to open the doors, the horses fastened to the inside reared and prevented our passing. It was impossible to get to the other door for the smoke and flames.

The confusion was supreme. The men from the further side of the barn threw themselves in a compact mass against the inside of the door near where we slept, to prevent others from getting in. To do this more effectually, they had fixed the door firmly with a cross-bar of wood. In less than two minutes the whole place was in flames; the fire had begun in the straw where the men slept, and rapidly spread to the dry beams above their heads. Some men near the door tried to open it, but failed, as it opened inwards. A terrible scene, impossible to describe, took place; smothered groans and terrible shrieks were heard from the building. The unfortunate wretches inside climbed one upon the other, endeavouring to get out through the roof; but flames were already issuing through the holes there, and no sooner did the men appear, their clothes on fire, and the hair burnt off their heads, than they were driven back again by the force of the fire.

Then cries and shrieks of rage were heard, the fire became a vast tossing mass, through the convulsive efforts the poor wretches made to escape. It was the picture of hell.

We saved seven men by dragging them through a hole made by a plank torn from its place. One of them was an officer of our regiment. His hands were burnt and his clothes torn, and the other six were worse off still. It was impossible to save any more in this way, as the others were already half suffocated by the smoke, and by the weight of other men on the top of them; we had to leave them to be burnt with the rest. Some few flung themselves off the roof, and begged us to finish them off by shooting them.

Other men who were camping near, half dead with cold by their wretched fires, now came running up, attracted by the light of the flames. They came, not to offer help--they were too late for that--but to warm themselves, and cook their horseflesh on the points of their swords and bayonets. In their opinion, the disaster was an intervention of Providence, as the men burnt in the barn were the richest in the army, having brought away more treasure than any others from Moscow. In spite of their hunger and weakness, we saw men running the risk of the flames to drag out the bodies of their wretched comrades, in order to hunt for what they could find. Others said, 'It serves them right; if they had let us get on to the roof, this would not have happened.' Others, again, stretched out their hands to the warmth, saying, 'What a beautiful fire!' regardless of the fact that several hundreds of their comrades, perhaps even of their relatives, had given their bodies to feed the flames.

Before the dawn, I set out with my companion to rejoin the regiment. We walked on, thinking of all that had passed, stumbling over dead and dying men. The cold was even more intense than on the day before. We joined two men of the line who had their teeth in a bit of horseflesh. They said, if they waited any longer, it would be frozen too hard to eat. They assured us as a fact that they had seen foreign soldiers (Croats) of our army dragging corpses out of the fire, cutting them up and eating them. I never saw this sort of thing myself, but I believe it frequently happened during this fatal campaign.

What object could these men have, almost dying as they were, in telling us this story, if it were not true? It was not an occasion for lying. I am sure that if I had not found any horseflesh myself, I could have turned cannibal. To understand the situation, one must have felt the madness of hunger; failing a man to eat, one could have demolished the devil himself, if he were only cooked.

Since we left Moscow, a pretty Russian carriage drawn by four horses had followed the Guards' column. For the last two days, however, we only saw two; the others had either been killed and eaten, or had died of the cold and fatigue. In the carriage was a lady, probably a widow, still young, with her two daughters, of seventeen and fifteen years of age. They were from Moscow, of French origin, and had yielded to the entreaties of one of our superior officers to accompany him to France. Perhaps the officer intended to marry the lady, for he was no longer very young. Be that as it may, these unhappy ladies were, like us, exposed to the terrible cold, and to all the miseries of hunger and want, feeling it, no doubt, far more keenly than we did.

The day was breaking when we got to the place where our regiment had slept, and the army was already in motion. During the last two days the regiments were diminished by a third of their number, and it was only too evident, from the slow, painful progress of many of the men, that they would succumb before the day was over. I saw the carriage containing the unfortunate ladies emerge from a little wood on to the highroad; there it stopped close to me, and I heard cries and groans proceeding from it. The officer in charge of the ladies opened the door, got into the carriage, and presently lifted out a dead body to the sappers waiting outside. One of the poor girls had just died. She was dressed in gray silk, with a cape of the same colour trimmed with ermine. She was still beautiful, but very thin. We were all very much touched at this sight, in spite of our usual indifference to tragic scenes, and when I saw the officer in tears, I wept also.

As the sappers took the girl's body away, I glanced into the carriage, and there I saw the mother and the other girl fallen one over the other. They seemed to be quite unconscious, and, indeed, their sufferings were ended that evening. I think they were all three buried by the sappers in the same grave, near Valoutina. The Lieutenant-Colonel, reproaching himself for this misfortune, tried at Krasnoe and other battles to meet his death; and in January, a few days after our arrival at Elbingen, he died of grief.

This day (November 8th) was a terrible one. We were late at our halting-place, and, as we were supposed to reach Smolensk the following day, the hope of getting food and rest, and the rumour that we were to go into cantonments there, inspired many of our men to superhuman exertions, in spite of the frightful cold and every kind of privation.

Before reaching the place for bivouac, we had to cross a deep ravine and climb a hill. Some artillerymen of the Guard had stopped in the ravine with their guns, quite unable to get up the hill. The horses were entirely spent, and the men's strength gone. They were accompanied by some gunners of the King of Prussia's Guard; they had been through the campaign with us, attached to our artillery as a Prussian contingent. They had made their bivouacs by the side of their guns, lighting their fires as best they could, and hoping to continue their way in the morning. Our regiment and the Chasseurs were on the right of the road. I believe these were the heights of Valoutina, where a battle had been fought on August 19th that same year.

I was on guard at Marshal Mortier's. His quarters were a barn without a roof. A hasty shelter had been put up, however, to keep out the snow and cold as much as possible. Our Colonel and the Adjutant-Major were there also. We tore some wood off the fence to make a little fire for the Marshal, at which we could all warm ourselves. We had hardly settled down to cook a piece of horseflesh, when a man appeared, his head tied up in a handkerchief, his hands swathed in rags, and his clothes burnt. He cried out as he came up:

'Ah, Colonel, how miserable I am! I am suffering terribly!'

The Colonel turned round, asking him who he was, where he came from, and what was the matter with him.

'Ah, Colonel,' he said, 'I have lost everything, and I am frightfully burnt.'

The Colonel then recognised him, and said:

'That was your own fault; you should have kept with the regiment. You have disappeared for several days. What have you been doing? You ought to have shown an example, and been ready, like us, to die at your post. Do you understand, sir?'

But the poor devil did not hear or understand, and this was not the right time to lecture. The man was the officer we had saved from the fire at the barn, and who was supposed to possess a great many gold and precious things taken at Moscow. He had lost everything, however; his horse and his belongings had all gone. The Marshal and the Colonel began to talk of the fire, and of several officers who had perished there with their servants. As they knew I had been present, they asked me for details of the disaster, as the officer we had saved could say nothing--he was too much overcome.

It was perhaps nine o'clock, an intensely dark night, and many of us were already asleep--a sleep continually broken by the cold and the pain we suffered from fatigue and hunger. The fire also was constantly going out. We thought of the next day, which should bring us to Smolensk, where we had heard our misery would be over, as food could be had there and we should take up our quarters.

I had just finished my miserable supper of horse's liver, with snow for drink; the Marshal had eaten some also, but he had besides a little biscuit and a drop of brandy--not a very delicate repast for a Marshal of France, but quite luxurious in our present unfortunate circumstances.

As we were eating, the Marshal saw a man leaning on his musket at the entrance to the barn, and asked him why he was there. The man replied that he was on sentry duty.

'For whom?' said the Marshal; 'and why should you do it? You cannot keep out cold and hunger from us. Come in and sit down by the fire.'

He then asked for some sort of pillow for his head. His servant brought him a portmanteau, and, wrapping himself in his cloak, he went to sleep. As I was following his example, in my bearskin, we were roused by an extraordinary noise. This was the north wind travelling over the forests, bringing with it heavy snow and twenty-seven degrees of frost, so that it became quite impossible for the men to stay where they had camped. We heard them shouting as they ran about towards any fire they saw; but the heavy snow-storms caught them, and they could soon run no more, or if they tried to do so, they fell and never rose again. In this way many hundreds perished, and thousands died of those who had stayed where they were camped. We were most fortunate in getting shelter in our corner of the barn. Many men took refuge with us, and thus saved their lives.

I must relate an act of devotion called forth by this disastrous night, when all the powers of hell seemed to be turned loose on us.

The Prince Emile of Hesse-Cassel was with us, and his contingent, composed of several regiments of cavalry and infantry. Like us, he bivouacked on the left side of the road, with the remainder of his unfortunate men, now reduced to five or six hundred. About a hundred and fifty dragoons were left; but these were almost all on foot, their horses being dead and eaten. These brave men, almost frozen with the cold, sacrificed themselves in this awful night to save their young Prince, not more than twenty years of age. They stood round him the whole night wrapped in their great white cloaks, pressed tightly one against the other, protecting him from the wind and cold. The next morning three-quarters of them were dead and buried beneath the snow, along with ten thousand others from different corps.

At daylight, to regain the road, we were obliged to go down to the ravine, where the evening before the artillerymen had made their bivouac. Not one was left alive; men and horses were all covered with snow--the men still round the fires, the horses harnessed to the guns, which we were forced to leave there.

It almost always happened that the weather became more endurable after a storm and excessive cold. It seemed as if Nature had wearied herself out in torturing us, and she must have breathing-space before she struck us again.

All who were still alive set out once more. To right and left of the road men half dead crept out of wretched shelters formed by pine branches, buried all night under the snow. Others came from further off in the woods, dragging themselves painfully along. We halted a little, waiting for them, talking to each other of the horrors of the night and the incredible number of men we had lost, and looking mechanically over that terrible field. Piles of arms were there in places, many others overthrown, but no one to take them up.

After collecting together as far as we could, we recommenced the march, our regiment forming the rear-guard. This was a most painful and weary day for us, as numbers of men could no longer walk, and we were obliged to hold them up under the arms, dragging them with us, to save them if possible by getting them to Smolensk.

We had to cross a little wood before reaching the town; here we came up with all the artillery collected together. The horses were a fearful sight; the gun-carriages and waggons were crowded with sick men dying from the cold. I remember that one of my old friends named Ficq, from the same part of the country as myself, was in this condition. I asked a Chasseur of the Guard of his regiment what had become of him, and he told me only a few minutes ago he had fallen dead on the road. Just at that place he said the road was narrow, and in a deep hollow, so that they could not carry his body to the side. All the artillery, therefore, had passed over him, as well as some others fallen in the same place.

I was walking now in a narrow footpath in the wood to the left of the road, and with me was one of my friends, a sergeant in the same regiment. We suddenly came upon a gunner of the Guard lying right across the path. By him was another gunner stripping his clothes from him. We could see that the man was not dead, as his legs moved, and every now and then he struck the ground with his fists. Without saying a word, my companion gave the wretched thief a blow in the back with the butt of his musket. We immediately abused him violently for his barbarous conduct. He answered that, although the other was not dead, he very soon would have died, as he had been quite unconscious when placed there to be out of the way of the artillery; and, besides, he was his messmate, and if anyone had the clothes he was the right man.

The same thing frequently happened to these wretched men who were supposed to have money about them. There were many who remained by those who had fallen: not to help them, but to behave as did the gunner.

For the honour of humanity, perhaps, I ought not to describe all these scenes of horror, but I have determined to write down all I saw. I cannot do otherwise, and, besides, all these things have taken such possession of my mind that I think if I write them down they will cease to trouble me. And if in this disastrous campaign acts of infamy were committed, there were noble actions, too, which do honour to our humanity; amongst others, I have seen men carry a wounded officer on their shoulders for many days.

As we emerged from the wood, we met about a hundred lancers mounted on good horses with new equipments. They came from Smolensk, where they had been all the time. They were horrified on seeing the wretched condition we were in, and we were no less surprised to see their well-being. Many of our men ran after them like beggars, asking if they had a bit of bread or biscuit to give them.

We now made a halt to wait for those who were bringing the sick. It was a most harrowing sight. Talk to them as we would of the hope of good food and lodging, they seemed not to hear anything. They were like clay figures, walking where they were led, standing still if they were left. The strongest among them took turns in carrying the arms and knapsacks, for these unfortunate men, who, besides having lost their strength and a part of their reason, had also lost their fingers and toes.

We now saw the Dnieper again on our left, and on the further bank caught sight of the thousands of men who had crossed the river on the ice. Foot soldiers and cavalry were there from different corps, running as fast as they could towards a distant village to get food and shelter for the night. We marched on painfully for another hour, and in the evening reached the banks of the fatal Boristhene; we crossed the river, and, worn out with fatigue and almost dying, we were at last beneath the walls of the town.

Thousands of men were there already, from every corps and of every nation. They were there waiting at the gates and ramparts till they could gain admission, and this had been refused them on the ground that, marching as they were without officers or order, and already dying of hunger, they might pillage the town for provisions. Many hundreds of these men were already dead or dying. When we arrived there with the rest of the Guard in an orderly fashion, and taking the utmost precaution for our sick and wounded, the gates were opened, and we entered. The greater number broke the ranks, and spread on all sides, anxious to find some roof under which to spend the night, and eat the food promised us.

To obtain any sort of order, it was announced that men isolated from the rest would get nothing; so after this the men were careful to rejoin their regiments, and choose a head to represent them, as several of the old regiments existed no longer. We of the Imperial Guard crossed the town with extreme difficulty, worn out with fatigue as we were. We had to climb the steep slope which separates the Boristhene from the other gate; this was covered with ice, and at every step the weakest of our men fell and had to be lifted up; others could not walk at all.

In this way we came to the side of the faubourg which had been burnt at the bombardment last August. We settled down as well as we could, in the ruins of those houses the fire had not quite destroyed. The sick and wounded who had had strength and courage enough to come with us were made as comfortable as possible. We were obliged to leave some of them, however, in a hut in a wood, near the entrance of the town, being much too ill to go any farther. Amongst them was a friend of mine, in a dying condition. He had dragged himself so far, hoping to find a hospital, for we had all hoped to stay in this town and the neighbourhood until the spring. Our hopes were disappointed, however, as most of the villages were burnt and in ruins, and the town of Smolensk existed only in name. Nothing was to be seen but the walls of houses built of stone; the greater part of the town had been built of wood, and had disappeared. The town, in fact, was a mere skeleton. If we went any distance in the dark, we came on pitfalls--that is, the cellars belonging to the wooden houses, now completely gone. These cellars were covered with snow, and if any man was so unfortunate as to step on one, he disappeared, and we saw him no more. A great many men were lost in this manner. Their bodies were dragged out again the next day, not for burial, but for the sake of their clothes, or anything else they might have about them. All those who died, whether on the march or while we stopped, were treated in the same way. The living men despoiled the dead, very often, in their turn, dying a few hours afterwards, and being subjected to the same fate.

Soon after our arrival, a little flour was given out to us, and about an ounce of biscuit, more, indeed, than we could have hoped for. Those of us who had a saucepan made hasty pudding; others made cakes, and cooked them in the ashes, devouring them half raw. Several of the men were dangerously ill afterwards, in consequence of the avidity with which they devoured the food. I was lucky enough not to suffer, although I had not tasted soup since November 1st, and the hasty pudding made of rye flour was as heavy as lead.

Many of the sick men who had made gigantic efforts to get here died, and as they occupied the best positions in our miserable ruins, their bodies were hastily removed, so that others could take their places.

After resting a little, in spite of the cold and falling snow, I went out to look for one of my comrades. He was my best and dearest friend; we had been together for seven years, and we had everything in common. His name was Grangier.[26] At Viasma he had gone forward with a detachment, escorting a waggon belonging to Marshal Bessieres, and I had not seen him since. I heard that he had arrived two days ago, and was quartered in one of the faubourgs. The hope of seeing him again, and also of sharing his provisions and his quarters, decided me to go at once. Without a word to anyone, I took my knapsack and re-entered the town by the road we had taken, and after falling on the steep and slippery slope several times, I reached the gate by which we had entered.

I stopped to see after the men we had left near the guard at the gate; this guard was composed of men from Baden, who partly formed the garrison. But my surprise was great on seeing the friend we had left with the others, till we could fetch them away, lying at the door of the hut, with nothing on but his trousers; everything had been taken from him, even his boots.

The Baden men told me that soldiers from the regiment had been to fetch the others, and, finding that this man was dead, they had themselves taken his clothes, and that afterwards they had carried away the two sick men, going round the town by the ramparts, hoping to find an easier road. While I was there several wretched men from different regiments came also, leaning on their muskets, hardly able to drag themselves along. Others, who were still on the farther side of the Boristhene, had fallen down in the snow, crying and imploring help. These German soldiers, however, either did not or would not understand. Fortunately, a young officer in command spoke French, and I begged him, in common humanity, to send help to these men over the bridge. He replied that since our arrival more than half his guard had been employed in that way, that there were hardly any men left, and that his guard-room was filled with sick and wounded, till there was no room to move.

However, as I entreated, he sent three men, who came back soon afterwards supporting an old Chasseur of the Cavalry of the Guard. They said they had left many others who would have to be carried, and that in the meantime they had put them near a large fire. The old Chasseur had nearly all his toes frozen, and had wrapped them up in a sheepskin. His beard, whiskers, and moustache were filled with icicles. They led him near a fire, where he sat down, and then he began to curse Alexander, the Emperor of Russia, the country, and the God of Russia. Then he asked me if brandy had been given out.

I said, 'No, not yet; there does not seem much chance of it.'

'Then,' he said, 'I had better die.'

The young German officer, on seeing the veteran suffer so terribly, could resist no longer, and, drawing a bottle of brandy from his pocket, he gave some to him.

'Thanks,' he said; 'you have saved my life. If I ever have an opportunity of saving your life at the cost of my own, you may be sure I shall not hesitate a moment. Remember Roland, Chasseur of the Old Guard, now on foot, or, to be exact, on no feet just at present. I had to leave my horse three days ago, and blew out his brains to put an end to his sufferings. I cut a piece off his leg afterwards, and I am going to eat a little now.'

Saying this, he unfastened the portmanteau he carried on his back, and, taking out some horseflesh, he offered some first to the officer and then to me. The officer gave him the bottle of brandy, and begged him to keep it. The old chasseur was grateful beyond all words. He again asked the officer not to forget him either in garrison or in the field, and finally said:

'The right sort never die.' But directly afterwards he reminded himself what a foolish speech he had made. 'For,' he said, 'there were many as good as me among the thousands who have died these last three days. I have been in Egypt, and, by God! it was no comparison with this. I hope to goodness we are at the end of our troubles; they say we are to take up our quarters here and wait for the spring, when we can take our revenge.'

The poor old fellow, rendered so talkative by a few mouthfuls of brandy, had no conception that we were only at the beginning of our troubles!

It was quite eleven o'clock, but I had not given up the search for Grangier, even during the night. I asked the officer to direct me to where he supposed Marshal Bessieres was quartered; but either I was misinformed or I did not understand, and I mistook the road. I found myself with the rampart on my right, and the Boristhene flowing beneath; on my left was a piece of waste ground, on the site of houses burnt down. Here and there through the darkness I saw odd beams and rafters standing out like shadows on the snow. The road I had taken was such a bad one, and I was so tired, that, after stumbling on a little way, I regretted having come alone. I began to retrace my steps, and put off my search for Grangier till the next day, when I heard someone behind me, and, turning, I recognised one of the Baden soldiers carrying a little barrel looking like brandy on his shoulder. I called to him, but he did not answer, and when I followed him, he doubled his pace. I did the same. He then ran down a rapid slope, and I tried to follow him; but my legs gave way beneath me, and I rolled from top to bottom, getting to the door of a cellar as soon as he did. The weight of my body against the door opened it, and I went in before the Baden fellow, with my right shoulder badly bruised, however.

I had scarcely time to collect my wits and look about me, when I was startled by confused cries in different languages from a dozen people lying on straw round a fire. They were French, German, and Italian, and I saw at once they were a gang of thieves who banded themselves together, travelled before the army, and arrived first at any houses they found, or camped separately in the villages. As soon as the army arrived at any place, the thieves came out of their hiding, prowled round the bivouacs, stole as quietly as possible their horses and bags from the officers, and set out again very early in the morning before the army started. This was their plan every day. The gang was one of those which had prowled about ever since the great cold began, and multiplied as they went.

I was stunned by my fall, and lay still for a minute, when one of the thieves lit a bit of straw to see me better. It was impossible to discover what regiment I belonged to on account of my bearskin. As soon, however, as he caught sight of the Imperial eagle on my shako, he called out in a jeering way, 'Ah! the Imperial Guard! Out with you! out with you!' And the others repeated, 'Get out! Out with you!'

I was stupefied and not at all alarmed by their shouting, and I got up to beg them to let me stay till morning, as fate or luck had brought me there. But the man who had spoken first, and seemed to be the chief, replied that I must go at once, and they all chorused, 'Be off! Out with you!'

A German was laying his hands on me, when I gave him a blow in the chest that sent him sprawling among the others, putting my hand on the hilt of my sword at the same time (my musket had been left behind in my roll down the hill). The chief applauded me for the blow I had given, saying a German, a sauerkraut-eater, had no business to touch a Frenchman. As I saw that the man was disposed to take my part, I announced that I would not go away until the morning, and that I would rather be killed than die of cold on the road. One of two women there began to put in a word for me, but was immediately ordered, in curses and filthy language, to be silent. The chief told me again to go, asking me not to oblige him to use force, as, if he did, the question would soon be settled, and I should be sent flying to rejoin my regiment.

I asked him why he and his companions were not there also, and he told me it was none of my business, that he had nothing to do with me, that he was master here, and that I could not spend the night with him, as I should be in their way when they made their night excursions, taking advantage of the disorder of the town. I then asked for permission to stay and warm myself, and said that afterwards I would go. Not receiving any answer, I asked a second time; the chief said he would consent if I left in half an hour. He ordered a drummer, who seemed to be second in command, to see that this was done.

As I wished to make the best of my opportunity, I asked if anyone had any food or brandy to sell. 'If we had,' they said, 'we should keep it ourselves.'

However, the little cask I had seen on the Baden man's shoulders looked very like brandy, and I understood when he said in his own language that he had taken it from a _cantiniere_ in his regiment, who had hidden it when the army came into the town. I concluded from this that the man was a new-comer, one of the garrison, and had only joined the thieves the day before, choosing, as they had done, to leave his regiment for the sake of plunder.

The drummer who was to see me out talked mysteriously with the others, and then asked me if I had any gold to buy brandy with.

'No,' I said, 'but I have some five-franc pieces.'

A woman near me, who had wished to take my part before, stooped down and seemed to be searching for something on the ground near the door. Coming close up to me, she said in a low voice:

'Run away; believe me, they will kill you. I have been with them, against my will, since Viasma. Come back with help, I implore you, to-morrow morning, to save me!'

I asked her who the other woman was, and she replied, 'A Jewess.'

I was going to question her further, when a voice from the back of the cellar told her to be quiet, and asked her what she had been saying. She answered that she had been telling me to get brandy of a Jew in the new market.

'Hold your tongue!' he replied.

She was silent, and went to a corner of the cellar.

After what the woman had said, I saw there was no doubt that I was in a regular den of thieves. So I did not wait till they turned me out, and, pretending to look for a place to lie down in, I got near the door, opened it, and went out. They called me back, saying I could stay all night and sleep there. But I made no answer, and picking up my musket, which lay near the entrance, I tried to find a way out of the hole. Not succeeding, I was on the point of knocking at the cellar door to ask the way, when the Baden soldier appeared, probably to see if it was time to make an excursion. He asked me again if I would go back. I said no, but I begged him to show me the way to the faubourg. He signed to me to follow him, and crossing the ruins of several houses, he climbed up by means of the staircase. I followed him, and when we were on the ramparts he made several detours on the pretext of showing me the way, but I could see that he wanted me to lose all trace of the way to the cellar. However, I wished to remember it, as I intended to go back the next day with several others to save the poor woman who had begged my help, and also to get an explanation about several portmanteaus I had seen at the back of their cursed cellar.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 26: Sergeant-velite in the same regiment as myself, the Fusilier-Grenadiers.--_Author's Note._]