Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 573
sinister glow of the setting sun to pass through, athwart the
elms on the Nivelles road. They had seen it rise at Auster-
litz.
Each battalion of the Guard was commanded by a gener-
al for this final catastrophe. Friant, Michel, Roguet, Harlet,
Mallet, Poret de Morvan, were there. When the tall caps of
the grenadiers of the Guard, with their large plaques bear-
ing the eagle appeared, symmetrical, in line, tranquil, in the
midst of that combat, the enemy felt a respect for France;
they thought they beheld twenty victories entering the field
of battle, with wings outspread, and those who were the con-
querors, believing themselves to be vanquished, retreated;
but Wellington shouted, ‘Up, Guards, and aim straight!’ The
red regiment of English guards, lying flat behind the hedg-
es, sprang up, a cloud of grape-shot riddled the tricolored
flag and whistled round our eagles; all hurled themselves
forwards, and the final carnage began. In the darkness, the
Imperial Guard felt the army losing ground around it, and
in the vast shock of the rout it heard the desperate flight
which had taken the place of the ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ and,
with flight behind it, it continued to advance, more crushed,
losing more men at every step that it took. There were none
who hesitated, no timid men in its ranks. The soldier in that
troop was as much of a hero as the general. Not a man was
missing in that suicide.
Ney, bewildered, great with all the grandeur of accepted
death, offered himself to all blows in that tempest. He had
his fifth horse killed under him there. Perspiring, his eyes
aflame, foaming at the mouth, with uniform unbuttoned,