“Eh! what have we got here?” cried some one with an oath. The words were French, so much at least was plain to Henri’s bewildered senses; and at the same time a very savoury odour reaching his nostrils reminded him that he was famishing with hunger. The next moment he was roughly seized and dragged upon his knees. “What do you want here? You are none of us. Be off with you, and pretty quick too!” cried a fellow dressed in a velvet coat which had once belonged to some Moscow exquisite. Slowly and stiffly Henri rose to his feet. “Comrades,” he said with a bewildered air, “it is you who are making a mistake. I am one of you--a Frenchman--a private in the Tenth Infantry--” “Hang the Tenth Infantry! It is every man for himself here. You are not one of our coterie.[39] We cannot feed all the stragglers of the grand army. Begone this instant, or--” A push with the butt end of his musket finished the sentence. The heartless cruelty of his countrymen filled up the measure of Henri’s cup of suffering. His spirit was broken. With no power, with scarcely even a wish to struggle any longer for his life, he staggered slowly away, intending to lie down in the nearest snow-drift and die. Some one took a blazing brand out of the fire and flung it after him. “If you want fire, take it!” cried he, and a mocking laugh rang in the ears of Henri. He turned, and said, “Would that I had met this night, instead of you Frenchmen, a company of Russians--or, still better, a pack of wolves!” “What is all this about?” asked a deep, hoarse voice, and a tall figure rose slowly from the opposite side of the fire. “It is a straggler, a _polisson_, who was trying to join our coterie. We have just been sending him about his business,” was the answer. “What a hurry you were in! Bring him to me,” said the voice of authority. There was no need to bring him. Henri himself turned gladly, though very feebly, towards this new arbiter of his fate. But when he saw him, he started in surprise. It is true that part of his uniform was concealed by a long cloak lined with fur, but his great hairy cap, and his white waistcoat and gaiters, showed him to be one of the Old Guard, the very _élite_ of the French army. These veterans were objects of envy to all their fellow-soldiers; for while the rest had been treated with cruel neglect and indifference, receiving between Moscow and Smolensko absolutely no rations whatever, the Old Guard were well and carefully fed, and supplied abundantly with wine or spirits. The reason was obvious. Upon them devolved a duty of paramount importance, that of guarding the person of Napoleon. Therefore, when the bulk of the army, demoralized by its sufferings, had broken up into fragments, the Old Guard was still able to keep rank, to present a noble appearance, and oppose a firm front to the enemy. Hence the surprise of Henri at finding one of its number amongst a group of wretched-looking stragglers belonging to various regiments.