The summer of 1815 found me at Brussels. The town was then crowded to excess--it seemed a city of splendour; the bright and varied uniforms of so many different nations, mingled with the gay dresses of female beauty in the Park, and the _Allée Verte_ was thronged with superb horses and brilliant equipages. The _tables d'hôte_ resounded with a confusion of tongues which might have rivalled the Tower of Babel, and the shops actually glittered with showy toys hung out to tempt money from the pockets of the English, whom the Flemings seemed to consider as walking bags of gold. Balls and plays, routs and dinners were the only topics of conversation; and though some occasional rumours were spread that the French had made an incursion within the lines, and carried off a few head of cattle, the tales were too vague to excite the least alarm. I was then lodging with a Madame Tissand, on the Place du Sablon, and I occasionally chatted with my hostess on the critical posture of affairs. Every Frenchwoman loves politics, and Madame Tissand, who was deeply interested in the subject, continually assured me of her complete devotion to the English.--"Ces maudits François!" cried she one day, with almost terrific energy, when speaking of Napoleon's army. "If they should dare come to Brussels, I will tear their eyes out!"--"Oh, aunt!" sighed her pretty niece; "remember that Louis is a conscript!"--"Silence, Annette. I hate even my son, since he is fighting against the brave English!"--This was accompanied with a bow to me; but I own that I thought Annette's love far more interesting than Madame's Anglicism.