The vicomte was unquestionably the most agreeable specimen of his nation I had ever met--easy and unaffected in his manner, having seen much, and observed shrewdly; not much skilled in book-learning, but deeply read in mankind. His views of politics were of that unexaggerated character which are so often found correct; while of his foresight I can give no higher token than that he then predicted to me the events of the year 1830, only erring as to the time, which he deemed might not be so far distant. The Empire, however, and Napoleon were his favourite topics. Bourbonist as he was, the splendour of France in 1810 and 1811, the greatness of the mighty man whose genius then ruled its destinies, had captivated his imagination, and he would talk for hours over the events of Parisian life at that period, and the more brilliant incidents of the campaigns. It was in one of our conversations, prolonged beyond the usual time, in discussing the characters of those immediately about the person of the Emperor, that I felt somewhat struck by the remark he made, that, while ‘Napoleon did meet unquestionably many instances of deep ingratitude from those whom he had covered with honours and heaped with favours, nothing ever equalled the attachment the officers of the army generally bore to his person, and the devotion they felt for his glory and his honour. It was not a sentiment,’ he said, ‘it was a religious belief among the young men of my day that the Emperor could do no wrong. What you assume in your country by courtesy, we believed _de facto_. So many times had events, seeming most disastrous, turned out pregnant with advantage and success, that a dilemma was rather a subject of amusing speculation amongst us than a matter of doubt and despondency. There came a terrible reverse to all this, however,’ continued he, as his voice fell to a lower and sadder key; ‘a fearful lesson was in store for us. Poor Aubuisson----’ ‘Aubuisson!’ said I, starting; ‘was that the name you mentioned?’ ‘Yes,’ said he, in amazement; ‘have you heard the story, then?’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘I know of no story; it was the name alone struck me. Was it not one of that name who was mentioned in one of Bonaparte’s despatches from Egypt?’ ‘To be sure it was, and the same man too; he was the first in the trenches at Alexandria; he carried off a Mameluke chief his prisoner at the battle of the Pyramids.’ ‘What manner of man was he?’ ‘A powerful fellow, one of the largest of his regiment, and they were a Grenadier battalion; he had black hair and black moustache, which he wore long and drooping, in Egyptian fashion.’ ‘The same, the very same!’ cried I, carried away by my excitement. ‘What do you mean?’ said the colonel; ‘you’ve never seen him, surely; he died at Charenton the same year Waterloo was fought.’