This order had been sent at two o’clock. It was now half-past five. At six the Emperor expected to hear the thunder of D’Erlon’s cannon in the rear of the Prussian army. As soon as he should hear that he would send in his reserves,--hurling them at the enemy’s center,--cut through, block its retreat on Sombreff, and drive it back upon the guns of Vandamme and D’Erlon. For the 60,000 men of Zeiten and Pirch there would be no escape. The Emperor was greatly elated. In order to annihilate Blücher and end the war with a clap of thunder it was only necessary that Ney obey orders. So thought Napoleon. He said to Gérard, “It is possible that three hours hence the fate of the war may be decided.” To Ney himself he had written, “The fate of France is in your hands.” With a soul full of the pride of success, the Emperor made his dispositions for the final blow. But what thunder-cloud is that which suddenly darkens the radiant sky? Away off there to the left, Vandamme’s scouts have caught sight of a column of twenty or thirty thousand troops who march as if their intention is to turn the French flank. An aide-de-camp sent by Vandamme dashes across the field to carry this fateful message to the Emperor. Thus, with hand uplifted to strike Blücher down, he must not deal the blow--his own flank is exposed. It does not occur to Napoleon that this column on the left may be D’Erlon’s corps, going in a wrong direction, by mistake. Vandamme had said they were the enemy; D’Erlon had no business to be _there_; the column _must_ be Prussian or English. Nothing can be done until an aide-de-camp can ride several miles, reconnoiter, ride back and report. The grand attack is delayed until this can be done. At length the aide-de-camp returns and reports that the suspicious column is D’Erlon’s corps. Filled with chagrin for not having guessed as much, and with rage for the precious hour of daylight lost, the Emperor gives the word, the grand attack begins. Black clouds have been gathering over the winding stream of Ligne, along whose banks the fighting has raged for several miles. The lightning now begins to flash and the thunder to roll, but even the voice of the storm is lost in the more terrible voice of battle as Napoleon’s batteries turn every gun on Ligny. The Old Guard deploys in columns of attack; cuirassiers make ready to dash forward; the drums beat the charge, and the splendid array moves onward amid deafening peals of “_Vive l’Empereur!_” Blücher has stripped his center to feed his right: he has no reserves: and the whole strength of Napoleon’s power smites the Prussian center. It is swept away. As Soult wrote Davout: “It was like a scene on the stage.”