cute a ricochet movement, supported
by artillery in the intervals, and converging by different epaulements
on the light infantry, that formed, as usual, the centre of the line.
It was by this famous manoeuvre that at Arcola, at Montenotte, at
Friedland, and subsequently at Mazagran, Suwaroff, Prince Charles, and
General Castanos were defeated with such victorious slaughter: but it
is a movement which, I need not tell every military man, requires the
greatest delicacy of execution, and which, if it fails, plunges an army
into confusion.

"Where is the Duke of Illyria?" Napoleon asked. "At the head of his
division, no doubt," said Murat: at which Eugene, giving me an arch
look, put his hand to his nose, and caused me almost to fall off my
horse with laughter. Napoleon looked sternly at me; but at this moment
the troops getting in motion, the celebrated manoeuvre began, and his
Majesty's attention was taken off from my impudence.

Milhaud's Dragoons, their bands playing "Vive Henri Quatre," their
cuirasses gleaming in the sunshine, moved upon their own centre from the
left flank in the most brilliant order, while the Carbineers of Foy, and
the Grenadiers of the Guard under Drouet d'Erlon, executed a carambolade
on the right, with the precision which became those veteran troops; but
the Chasseurs of the young guard, marching by twos instead of threes,
bore consequently upon the Bavarian Uhlans (an ill-disciplined and
ill-affected body), and then, falling back in disorder, became entangled
with the artillery and the left centre of the line, and in one instant
thirty thousand men were in inextricable confusion.

"Clubbed, by Jabers!" roared out Lanty Clancy. "I wish we could show 'em
the Fighting Onety-oneth, Captain darling."

"Silence, fellow!" I exclaimed. I never saw the face of man express
passion so vividly as now did the livid countenance of Napoleon. He tore
off General Milhaud's epaulettes, which he flung into Foy's face. He
glared about him wildly, like a demon, and shouted hoarsely for the Duke
of Illyria. "He is wounded, Sire," said General Foy, wiping a tear from
his eye, which was blackened by the force of the blow; "he was wounded
an hour since in a duel, Sire, by a young English prisoner, Monsieur de
Fogarty."

"Wounded! a marshal of France wounded! Where is the Englishman? Bring
him out, and let a file of grenadiers--"

"Sire!" interposed Eugene.

"Let him be shot!" shrieked the Emperor, shaking his s