at the head of the first and
eighth regiments of dragoons, charged upon him, increasing his disorder.
General Watrin, with the sixth light infantry and the twenty-second and
fortieth of the line, started in pursuit and drove him nearly a thousand
rods beyond the rivulet. But this movement separated the French from
their own corps; the centre divisions were endangered by the victory on
the right, and Generals Watrin and Champeaux were forced to fall back to
the lines they had left uncovered.

At the same time Kellermann was doing on the left wing what Champeaux
and Watrin had done on the right. Two cavalry charges made an opening
through the enemy's line; but behind that first line was a second. Not
daring to go further forward, because of superior numbers, Kellermann
lost the fruits of that momentary victory.

It was now noon. The French army, which undulated like a flaming serpent
along a front of some three miles, was broken in the centre. The centre,
retreating, abandoned the wings. The wings were therefore forced to
follow the retrograde movement. Kellermann to the left, Watrin to the
right, had given their men the order to fall back. The retreat was made
in squares, under the fire of eighty pieces of artillery which preceded
the main body of the Austrian army. The French ranks shrank visibly; men
were borne to the ambulances by men who did not return.

One division retreated through a field of ripe wheat; a shell burst and
fired the straw, and two or three thousand men were caught in the midst
of a terrible conflagration; cartridge-boxes exploded, and fearful
disorder reigned in the ranks.

It was then that Bonaparte sent forward the Consular guard.

Up they went at a charge, deployed in line of battle, and stopped the
enemy's advance. Meantime the mounted grenadiers dashed forward at a
gallop and overthrew the Austrian cavalry.

Meanwhile the division which had escaped from the conflagration received
fresh cartridges and reformed in line. But this movement had no other
result than to prevent the retreat from becoming a rout.

It was two o'clock.

Bonaparte watched the battle, sitting on the bank of a ditch beside the
highroad to Alessandria. He was alone. His left arm was slipped through
his horse's bridle; with the other he flicked the pebbles in the road
with the tip of his riding-whip. Cannon-balls were plowing the earth
about him. He seemed indifferent to this great drama on which hung all
his hopes.