een seventy-eight or so, but it is curious
that I should have heard from the actual lips of a man who had taken
part in it, the account of the battle of Borodino, of the entry of the
French troops into Moscow, of the burning of Moscow, and of the awful
sufferings the French underwent during their disastrous retreat from
Moscow. General de Flahault had been present at the terrible carnage of
the crossing of the Beresina on November 26, 1812, and had got both his
feet frost-bitten there, whilst his faithful servant David had died
from the effects of the cold. I wish that I could have been older then,
or have had more historical knowledge, for it was a unique opportunity
for acquiring information. I wish, too, that I could recall more of
what M. de Flahault told me. I have quite vivid recollections of the
old General himself, of the room in which we sat, and especially of the
chocolates which formed so agreeable an accompaniment to our
conversations. Still it remains an interesting link with the Napoleonic
era. This is 1920; that was 1812!

I can never hear Tchaikovsky's "1812 Overture" without thinking of
General de Flahault. The present Lord Lansdowne is the Comte de
Flahault's grandson.

Nearly fifty years later another interesting link with the past was
forged. I was dining with Prince and Princess Christian of
Schleswig-Holstein at Schomberg House. When the ladies left the room
after dinner, H. R. H. was good enough to ask me to sit next him. Some
train of thought was at work in the Prince's mind, for he suddenly
said, "Do you know that you are sitting next a man who once took
Napoleon I.'s widow, the Empress Marie Louise, in to dinner?" and the
Prince went on to say that as a youth of seventeen he had accompanied
his father on a visit to the Emperor of Austria at Schonbrunn. On the
occasion of a state dinner, one of the Austrian Archdukes became
suddenly indisposed. Sooner than upset all the arrangements, the young
Prince of Schleswig-Holstein was given the ex-Empress to lead in to
dinner.

I must again repeat that this is 1920. Napoleon married Marie Louise in
1810.

Both my younger brother and I were absolutely fascinated by Paris, its
streets and public gardens. As regards myself, something of the glamour
of those days still remains; Paris is not quite to me as other towns,
and I love its peculiar smell, which a discriminating nose would
analyse as one-half wood-smoke, one-quarter roasting coffee, and
one-qu