More fortunate than Napoleon, M. Z*** was killed on Mount St. Jean, the moment when our troops penetrated thither amidst the plaudits of the army. He was permitted to draw his last breath on the standards, which the conquerors of Ligny had just snatched from the English; and, far from foreseeing that his visit to the island of Elba would at some future day be a reproach to his memory, he died with the persuasion, that victory had irrevocably fixed his destiny, and that his name, cherished by the French, cherished by the hero whom he had restored to them, would be for ever hallowed by the gratitude of France, become once more the great nation. I shall not prematurely rob his manes of this consoling illusion; I shall not inform them, that ... no! it will be time enough hereafter to disturb their repose, and I shall await the attack before I begin the defence.] Here ends the memoir of M. Z****. This officer had scarcely quitted the island of Elba, when the Emperor (and I had the particulars from his Majesty himself) acknowledged and deplored the imprudence of which he had been guilty, in sending Z*** to the continent. The character and firmness of this faithful servant were sufficiently known to him, to prevent his feeling any anxiety on his account. He was certain (I use his own words), that he would suffer himself to be cut to pieces, before he would open his mouth: but he was afraid, that the inquiries he had directed him to make on the road, the letters he might address to him, or the conferences he might have at Paris with M. X*** and his friends, would excite the suspicions of the police; and that the Bourbons would station cruizers, so as to render an escape from the island of Elba, and a landing on the coast of France, altogether impossible. Thus the Emperor felt that there was but one way of preventing the danger, that of departing immediately. On this point he did not hesitate. From that moment every thing assumed a different aspect in the island of Elba.