All this time the Emperor--for it was Napoleon--took no note of where we were going; he was too busy conversing with old General de Ritter, to mind anything else. At last, after traversing a long narrow street, we came down upon an arm of the Scheldt, and so overcome was I then, that I resolved I would go no further without a smoke, and I sat myself down on a butter firkin, and took out my pipe, and proceeded to strike a light with my flint. A titter of laughter from the officers now attracted the Emperor’s attention, and he stopped short, and stared at me as if I had been some wonderful beast. “What is this?” said he. “Why don’t you move forward?” “It ‘s impossible,” replied I, “I never walked so far, since I was born.” “Where is the citadel?” cried he in a passion. “In the devil’s keeping,” said I, “or we should have seen it long ago.” “That must be it yonder,” said an aide-de-camp, pointing to a green, grassy eminence, at the other side of the Scheldt. The Emperor took the telescope from his hand, and looked through it steadily for a couple of minutes. “Yes,” said he, “that’s it: but why have we come all this round, the road lay yonder.” “Ja!” said I, “so it did.” “_Ventre bleu!_” roared he, while he stamped his foot upon the ground, “_ce gaillard se moque de nous_.” “Ja!” said I again, without well knowing why. “The citadel is there! It is yonder!” cried he, pointing with his finger. “Ja!” said I once more. “_En avant!_ then,” shouted he, as he motioned me to descend the flight of steps which led down to the Scheldt; “if this be the road you take, _par Saint Denis _! you shall go first.” Now the frost, as I have said, had only set in a few days before, and the ice on the Scheldt would scarcely have borne the weight of a drummer-boy; so I remonstrated at once, at first in Dutch, and then in French, as well as I was able, but nobody would mind me. I then endeavoured’ to show the danger his Majesty himself would incur; but they only laughed at this, and cried-- “_En avant, en avant toujours_,” and before I had time for another word, there was a corporal’s guard behind me, with fixed bayonets; the word “march” was given, and out I stepped. I tried to say a prayer, but I could think of nothing but curses upon the fiends, whose shouts of laughter behind put all my piety to flight. When I came to the bottom step I turned round, and, putting my hand to my sides, endeavoured by signs to move their pity; but they only screamed the louder at this, and at a signal from an officer, a fellow touched me with a bayonet.