they arrested the progress of the entire army. And now, accursed and shameful, they, had at last stranded at Sedan, hidden from all eyes by the Sub-Prefect's lilac bushes. Whilst Delaherche, rising on tip-toe, was examining the ground-floor windows of the Sub-Prefect's abode, an old woman--who stood near him--some poor journey-woman of the neighbourhood, with a bent frame and distorted hands consumed by toil, mumbled between her teeth: 'An Emperor, well, I should like to get a squint at one, just to see what he's like.' At that very moment Delaherche, catching hold of Maurice's arm, exclaimed: 'There--that's him--there, look, at the window on the left. Oh! there's no mistake about it. I recognise him perfectly; I was so near him yesterday, you know. He has pulled back the curtain--yes--there--that pale face against the window-pane.' The old woman heard these words, and stood there gazing. Close to the window-pane, as Delaherche had said, she could see a cadaverous-looking face with dim eyes, distorted features, and moustaches which seemed to have blanched in the throes of this last, long agony. Quite stupefied, the old woman immediately turned round and went off, making a gesture of superlative contempt: 'That an Emperor? Ugh, the ugly beast!' A Zouave stood near by, one of those disbanded soldiers who evinced no haste to join their regiments. He was brandishing his chassepot, swearing and expectorating threats, and all at once he exclaimed to a comrade: 'Wait a second, I'll put a bullet into his head.' This made Delaherche quite indignant, and he intervened; but Napoleon had already disappeared. The loud rush of the Meuse was still resounding; a plaint of infinite sadness seemed to have sped by in the growing dimness. From afar off came the muttering of other scattered noises. Was it the echo of the terrible order, 'March! march!' shouted from Paris, the order that had impelled this man on and on, from halting-place to halting-place, dragging with him along the highways of defeat all the irony of his imperial escort, and now brought to a stand, confronted by the frightful disaster that he had foreseen and had come to meet. Ah! how many brave fellows were about to die through his fault, and how profoundly must he have been stirred in every corner of his being--he, the sick man, the sentimental dreamer, so silently and mournfully waiting for destiny! Weiss and Delaherche accompanied the two soldiers as far as the plateau of Floing. 'Farewell!' said Maurice, as he embraced his brother-in-law. 'No, no, till we meet again!' gaily exclaimed the manufacturer.