te in full uniform, proud and arrogant, looking down
superciliously on the civilians, whose humble greetings they scarcely
condescended to return. Two months before, General von Ruechel had been
able to exclaim: "A Prussian officer never goes on foot." The Prussian
guard had really believed that it would be scarcely worth while to draw
their swords against the French--that it would be sufficient merely to
march against them. But now the disastrous days of Jena had taught the
officers how to walk--now they did not look down scornfully from their
horses on poor civilians, and faith in their own irresistibility had
utterly disappeared. They marched with bowed heads, profoundly
humiliated, and compelled to suppress the grief overflowing their
hearts. Their uniforms were hanging in rags on emaciated forms, and the
colors of the cloth and the gold-lace facings were hidden beneath the
mud that covered them. Their boots were torn, and robbed of the silver
spurs; and, as in the case of Prince Augustus of Hohenzollern, many wore
wooden shoes. But in spite of this miserable and heart-rending
spectacle, the populace had no pity, but accompanied the melancholy
procession with derisive laughter and insulting shouts!

"Just look at those officers," exclaimed a member of the national guard,
approaching the soldiers--"look at those high-born counts! Do you
remember how proud they used to be? How they despised us at the balls,
in the saloons, and everywhere else? How we had always to stand aside in
the most submissive manner, in order not to be run down by them? They
will not do so again for some time to come."

"No," cried the crowd, "they won't hurt anybody now! Their pomp and
circumstance have vanished!"

"Just look at Baron von Klitzing!" exclaimed another. "See how the wet
rim of his hat is hanging down on his face, as though he were a modest
girl wishing to veil herself. Formerly, he used to look so bold and
saucy; seeming to believe the whole world belonged to him, and that he
needed only to stretch out his hand in order to capture ten French
soldiers with each finger."

"Yes, yes, they were tremendous heroes on marching out," shouted
another; "every one of the noble counts and barons had already his
laurel in his pocket, and was taking the field as though it were a
ball-room, in order to put his wreath on his head. Now they have come
back, and the laurels they have won are not even good enough to boil
carps with." A roar of l