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fast or broke down, and plunder began to be disgorged. "The road was strewn with valuable articles, pictures, candlesticks, quantities of books. For more than an hour I was picking up volumes, which I skimmed for a moment and threw away again, to be picked up in turn and thrown away by others. There were editions of Voltaire, of Rousseau, of Buffon's "Natural History," bound in red morocco with gilt edges.' A more useful find was a

bearskin rug.

It was from this time that the real horrors of the retreat may be said to have begun. The provisions brought from Moscow, at all events such as were attainable by the rank and file, were exhausted, and horseflesh was becoming almost the only article of diet. If a man had secured a little rice or a few potatoes, he consumed his stores if possible out of sight, or, if of an unusually generous disposition, shared them surreptitiously with one or two intimate friends. Darker stories began to be told. One day Bourgogne, half by force, half by persuasion, had succeeded in persuading another soldier to 'spare' him seven half-cooked potatoes for the price of fifteen francs. As he walked on, lost in calculation as to the length of time he might prolong existence by the aid of this addition to his supplies, he missed the road.

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I first found out that I was astray (he says) by the yells and oaths of five men who were fighting like dogs; beside them was a leg of horse, which was the bone of contention. On seeing me, one of them came up to me, saying that he and his comrade, belonging to the transport service, had with some others been killing a horse behind the wood. As they were returning with their share to their bivouac they had been set upon by three men of another regiment, who wanted to take it from them; but if I would help them to defend it, they would give me some. Fearing the same fate for my potatoes, I told them I could not stop, but if they would hold their own for a moment, I would send them some help, and so went on.

I had not gone far when I met two men of our regiment, and told them all about it. They went off in that direction. Next day I heard that when they reached the spot they found only a dead man, just despatched with a bludgeon of firwood, which they found lying by him stained with blood. Probably the three assailants had taken advantage of the moment when one was imploring my aid to get rid of the other, who remained alone.

Of the cases of cannibalism said by many writers to have occurred during the retreat, Bourgogne does not profess to speak as an eye-witness. He mentions, however, an incident of which he and some of his companions were informed by two soldiers whom they fell in with, and who, as he remarks, would have no inducement to invent the story. A farmhouse, in which a number of officers

and men had sought shelter for the night, took fire, and many of the inmates perished. The men in question affirmed that they had seen some Croat soldiers pull a roasted body from the fire, cut it up and devour it. “I believe,' adds Bourgogne, that this happened more than once in the course of this disastrous campaign, though I did not see it.' Elsewhere he, or one of his friends, refers almost with equanimity to the possibility of being compelled to resort to this horrible expedient for sustaining life.

Smolensk, which they reached on November 9, though the former passage of the army had left it little more than a mass of blackened ruins, was eagerly hailed as a haven of temporary rest ; some indeed had cherished a vain hope that they might wait there till spring. Here a little flour and some biscuit was served out, of which the famished men ate with such avidity that many became ill. Discipline was almost entirely relaxed, and an organised system of pillage was set up within the army. A band of thieves, French, German, Italian, would combine to march together, well in advance of the main body. On reaching the assigned halting-place, they would separate, and on the arrival of the army at nightfall, would emerge from their hiding-places and prowl round the bivouacs, picking up a horse here, some baggage there, and so forth.

Bourgogne, sallying out one night at Smolensk in search of a comrade, lost his way, and rolled down a bank into a cellar which was tenanted by one of these gangs.

I was still dazed with my fall, and had not picked myself up, when an individual rose at the far end of the cellar, and set light to some straw to get a better view of me. Catching sight of the Imperial Eagle on my shako, he called out in a jeering tone, “Aha! Imperial Guard ! Out you go l' and the rest took up the cry. I begged them, as chance had thrown me among them, to let me stay till morning. But the one who had first risen, and who seemed the leader, having at his side a broadsword which he took care to display with some affectation, repeated that I was to go out, and that at once; the rest joining in the chorus. A German made as though to lay hands on me, but with a push in the chest I sent him sprawling over some others who were still lying down, and laid my hand on the hilt of my sabre, for my musket had remained behind when I rolled down. The man with the sword applauded the spill I gave the fellow who wanted to turn me out, telling him that it was no business of a cabbageheaded German to lay hands on a Frenchman.

Encouraged by this approbation, Bourgogne pleaded once more for a night's hospitality, his request being seconded by one of two women who were with the gang. This was again refused, on the avowed ground that his presence might interfere with their plans for marauding; but he was allowed to stay and warm himself for half an hour. Presently, however, the woman who had stood his friend advised him to make his escape while he could, and he went out. He recovered his musket, which he had dropped in his fall; but, being unable in the darkness to find his way up the bank, he was forced to wait till one of the gang came out. The man made no objection to guiding him past some ruined houses to a flight of steps, by which the road along the ramparts could be regained, but, on reaching it, made him take several turns, under pretext of showing him his way, so as to puzzle him as to the locality of the den from which he had escaped. He did return, however, with some friends next morning ; but 'the birds had flown,' and all they found was some empty trunks and Bourgogne's German assailant of the previous night dead drunk.

His adventures for that night did not end with his escape from the den of thieves. As, with a frost-bitten foot, he made his way painfully through the snow, stumbling now over a deserted gun-carriage, now over a corpse, once stopping just in time to avoid a fall from the top of the ramparts into the Dnieper, which flowed in a turbid, icy stream at their foot, he became, or fancied he became, aware of music like the notes of an organ floating in the air. Just then a heavier fall than

. usual, over the body of a dead dragoon, caused him to utter a cry of pain. It was answered by a shout at no great distance; and, making his way towards the sound, Bourgogne found to his joy that it proceeded from a friend of his—one Beloque, a sergeant in the same corps—keeping guard over two sick men, who, unable to go further, were awaiting the bearers for whom he had sent. To him he recounted the adventure of the cellar. “But,' he adds, 'I did not dare to say anything about the music, lest he should say I was ill. The pair walked up and down, their conversation broken at times by the death-rattle from one or another of the sick men, when suddenly the aërial music began to sound again, this time appearing to be much nearer at hand. Beloque said, in a whisper, lest the dying men should overhear—a curious touch of the courtesy which a Frenchman, if he has time to think, seldom forgets– It is very like the music of the dead. All is dead around us, and I have a presentiment that in a few days I shall be dead too. Well, God's will be done.

Well, God's will be done. But one might die with less suffering. Look at those poor fellows.' 'I made no answer,' says the narrator, “but my thought was the same as his.'

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For a while they listened in silence, disturbed only by the laboured breathing of one of the sick men. The sounds seemed to proceed from overhead. Presently they ceased, and with a plaintive cry the other man drew his last breath. The bearers came up, and the survivor was taken away. Bourgogne and his friend went with the party ; but the former soon left them, and went in quest of another comrade. At once the mysterious music began again, and, following it, he arrived at a building all lighted up. This proved to be a church. Climbing over the low churchyard wall, and crossing some ground, which seemed strangely uneven till he perceived that it was strewn with corpses lying under a covering of snow, the sergeant reached the doorway. The door was open, and volumes of smoke issued from it. The interior was also thick with smoke, amid which men were singing and playing the organ; but this presently cleared as the flame of the fire burnt up; and one of the singers recognised Bourgogne, and greeted him. They turned out to be men of his own company, all more or less drunk. Some of them, being on fatigue duty, had seen two Jews emerging from a cellar. Marking the spot, they had returned, found some brandy and some food, as well as some fur pelisses. Having noted the church as a convenient shelter, they were 'making a night of it,' with the aid of their plunder. Some bandsmen had got into the organ-loft, and it was their performances on the instrument that had caused the melodious sounds whereby Bourgogne and his friend had been so sorely perplexed. Others had torn down the woodwork to make a fire, using, among other materials, some of the stairs to the organ-loft, whereby one of the unlucky bandsmen, waking from a drunken sleep by the organ, and attempting to descend, 'got a fall which incapacitated him from marching for some time.

Probably he never came home. The whole scene is one of the grimmest, not to say gruesomest, Hogarthian humour.

Krasnoi was the next stage after Smolensk. Here the Russian army barred the passage, and some sharp fighting ensued, in which poor Beloque's forebodings as to his own fate were verified. Ultimately the Russians gave way so far as to allow the fugitives to enter the town, but remained closely in touch with them. The Guard, which had started 35,000 strong, was by this time, though it had been less engaged than any other corps, dwindled to 7,000 or 8,000. At Orcza, Ney, who had been covering the

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retreat, rejoined, with two or three thousand men, all that were left to represent the 70,000 originally under his command.

The action at Krasnoi, though technically a victory for the French—'opimus fallere et effugere est triumphus'-achieved the demoralisation of their army. Till then,' says Bourgogne, 'I had been pretty cheerful and superior to all the weight of our miseries. The more of danger and trouble, I thought, the more of honour and glory. My comrades were astounded at my patience. But after Krasnoi, and the loss of many friends'—the sentence remains incomplete, as though the veteran's pen had faltered before the mere remembrance of that terrible time. From that time, stragglers arriving at a bivouac after dark would call out the name not of their regiment but of their army corps; and sometimes, in order to find even their corps, or what remained of it, they were forced to wander about half the night. One day, about this time, the fragments of the Guard regiments were suddenly ordered to form square.

At that moment the Emperor came by, with Murat and Eugène. He took up his position in the centre of the grenadiers and chasseurs, and then made them an allocution with reference to the situation, informing them that the Russians were awaiting us at the passage of the Beresina, and had sworn that not a man of us should recross it. Then, drawing his sword, and raising his voice, he exclaimed : • Let us on our side swear to die with arms in our hands rather than not see France again.' The oath was taken straightway. In other words, If the Russians think that by shooting you they will prevent me getting back to France, they are much mistaken.' When the Beresina was reached a few days later, and the bridges had been thrown across, Napoleon, with a strong escort, crossed at his ease.

This was on November 27; and so well had he kept in advance of the throng, that no one crossed the bridge all that night, and even at seven o'clock on the following morning, when Bourgogne himself crossed, he had the bridge all to himself. During the past four or five days, having in the confusion lost sight of his regiment, or the handful of comrades who still represented it among what had been

Hier la Grande Armée, et maintenant troupeau, he had made his way as best he could, partly alone, partly in company with an old friend belonging, like himself, to the Guard, who had also lost his way, and upon whom by great good fortune he had lighted. This man, Picart by name, and a Picard by origin, was a cheery soul; and his companionship was the salvation of