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But the good guardian angel did not desert me.
Quick as a flash there came into my memory the name of the
general who commanded the advance of the Prussians.
{illust. caption = "There is Marshal Blucher. Deliver your
message!"}
"General Bulow!" I cried. The Uhlan let go my bridle. "General
Bulow! General Bulow!" I shouted, as every stride of the dear
little mare took me nearer my own people. Through the burning
village of Planchenoit I galloped, spurred my way between two
columns of Prussian infantry, sprang over a hedge, cut down a
Silesian Hussar who flung himself before me, and an instant
afterward, with my coat flying open to show the uniform below, I
passed through the open files of the tenth of the line, and was
back in the heart of Lobau's corps once more. Outnumbered and
outflanked, they were being slowly driven in by the pressure of
the Prussian advance. I galloped onward, anxious only to find
myself by the Emperor's side.
But a sight lay before me which held me fast as though I had been
turned into some noble equestrian statue. I could not move, I
could scarce breathe, as I gazed upon it. There was a mound over
which my path lay, and as I came out on the top of it I looked
down the long, shallow valley of Waterloo. I had left it with
two great armies on either side and a clear field between them.
Now there were but long, ragged fringes of broken and exhausted
regiments upon the two ridges, but a real army of dead and
wounded lay between. For two miles in length and half a mile
across the ground was strewed and heaped with them. But
slaughter was no new sight to me, and it was not that which held
me spellbound. It was that up the long slope of the British
position was moving a walking forest-black, tossing, waving,
unbroken. Did I not know the bearskins of the Guard? And did I
not also know, did not my soldier's instinct tell me, that it was
the last reserve of France; that the Emperor, like a desperate
gamester, was staking all upon his last card? Up they went and
up--grand, solid, unbreakable, scourged with musketry, riddled
with grape, flowing onward in a black, heavy tide, which lapped
over the British batteries. With my glass I could see the
English gunners throw themselves under their pieces or run to the
rear. On rolled the crest of the bearskins, and then, with a
crash which was swept across to my ears, they met the British
infantry. A minute passed, and another, and another. My heart
was in my mouth.
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