n will fate relent? When will there be an end of this? My
eagles will yet triumph, but the happiness which accompanies them is
fled. Whither has he been conveyed? I must see him. Poor, poor Duroc!"

The Emperor found the dying marshal in a cottage, still stretched upon
the camp litter by which he had been conveyed from the field. Pallid as
marble from the loss of blood, and with features distorted with agony,
he was scarcely recognizable. The Emperor approached the litter, threw
his arms around the neck of the friend he so tenderly loved, and
exclaimed, in tones of deepest grief, "Alas! then is there no hope?"

"None whatever," the physicians replied.

The dying man took the hand of Napoleon, and gazing upon him
affectionately, said, "Sire, my whole life has been devoted to your
service, and now my only regret is that I can no longer be useful to
you." Napoleon, in a voice almost inarticulate with emotion, said,

"Duroc, there is another life. There you will await me."

"Yes, sire," the marshal faintly replied, "but that will be thirty years
hence. You will then have triumphed over your enemies, and realized the
hopes of our country. I have lived an honest man. I have nothing to
reproach myself with. I have a daughter, to whom your Majesty will be a
father."

Napoleon was so deeply affected that he remained for some time in
silence, incapable of uttering a word, but still affectionately holding
the hand of his dying friend.

Duroc was the first to break the silence. "Sire," he said, "this sight
pains you. Leave me."

The Emperor pressed his hand to his lips, embraced him affectionately,
and saying sadly, "Adieu, my friend," hurried out of the room.

Supported by Marshal Soult and Caulaincourt, Napoleon, overwhelmed with
grief, retired to his tent, which had been immediately pitched in the
vicinity of the cottage. "This is horrible," he exclaimed. "My
excellent, my dear Duroc! Oh, what a loss is this!"

His eyes were flooded with tears, and for the moment, forgetting every
thing but his grief, he retired to the solitude of his inner tent.

The squares of the Old Guard, sympathizing in the anguish of their
commander and their sovereign, silently encamped around him. Napoleon
sat alone in his tent, wrapped in his gray great-coat, his forehead
resting upon his hand, absorbed in painful musings. For some time none
of his officers were willing to intrude upon his grief. At length two of
the generals ventured to co