From the front we heard (I don’t know how) that the French army are in position at Montmartre, where they intend to fight us again. If they are beaten--of which we entertain no doubt--the fate of Paris is certain; every one fully expects it will be plundered and burned, and thus my prediction verified, the campaign ending with a _grand embrassement_, as I have already written down! There is some firing just begun in front. The Prussians commencing, no doubt! _July 2d._--Having no candles last night, could not write up as usual, but was forced to sit in the dark smoking our cigars and listening to the incessant firing in front. This morning is beautiful again, but terribly hot. The latter part of yesterday evening we passed on the tiptoe of expectation, for the firing became constantly heavier and more distinct; that a battle was fighting could not be mistaken. Lieutenant Bell, our adjutant, came to tell me my troop was for the reserve. He also told us that many messages had passed between the Duke and the French authorities. Anxiously we gazed across the top of the waving corn, hoping every moment to see the messenger bringing orders for our advance. Twilight began to shorten our ken, and still the cannonade continued without intermission. At last an orderly dragoon did come, but he brought an order for the rocket-troop only to advance, whilst we were to be saddled and ready to move at a moment’s notice. The rockets soon moved, and our bivouac became more gloomy than ever. Fatigued more from excitement than anything else, I lay down at a late hour to sleep; but though I slept I did not rest--feverish dreams of Paris in flames; of plundering, mutinous soldiers, and all sorts of horrors; so that I could hardly believe my eyes and ears when I awoke this morning at three o’clock and looked round me. The orchard presented a scene of the most perfect tranquillity; the firing had ceased; my people, ensconced in the straw, their blankets drawn over them, lay quietly sleeping under their guns; no sound broke the silence of this most delicious summer morning save the jingling of our horses’ collar-chains, and the sweet songs of birds, with which the trees were filled. I could scarcely credit the agitation of yesterday evening--it all seemed part of my dream. By degrees our village was all alive; and as the morning advanced, so has our excitement, for the cannonade in front has recommenced. Evening approaches again; the firing has lasted all day without intermission; and yet here we are, doing nothing, or worse, for both our horses and ourselves are drying up with thirst. We cannot stay here much longer, for our only well is almost exhausted.