I was standing in silence thinking over this sinister invitation of my uncle’s, when I heard my own name, and, looking up, I saw de Caulaincourt, with his brown handsome face and tall elegant figure, making his way towards me.

‘It is your first entrance at Court, is it not, Monsieur de Laval,’ said he, in his high-bred cordial manner; ’you should not feel lonely, for there are certainly many friends of your father here who will be overjoyed to make the acquaintance of your father’s son.  From what de Meneval told me I gather that you know hardly anyone—­even by sight.’

‘I know the Marshals,’ said I; ’I saw them all at the council in the Emperor’s tent.  There is Ney with the red head.  And there is Lefebvre with his singular mouth, and Bernadotte with the beak of a bird of prey.’

’Precisely.  And that is Rapp, with the round, bullet head.  He is talking to Junot, the handsome dark man with the whiskers.  These poor soldiers are very unhappy.’

‘Why so?’ I asked.

’Because they are all men who have risen from nothing.  This society and etiquette terrifies them much more than all the dangers of war.  When they can hear their sabres clashing against their big boots they feel at home, but when they have to stand about with their cocked hats under their arms, and have to pick their spurs out of the ladies’ trains, and talk about David’s picture or Passaniello’s opera, it prostrates them.  The Emperor will not even permit them to swear, although he has no scruples upon his own account.  He tells them to be soldiers with the army, and courtiers with the Court, but the poor fellows cannot help being soldiers all the time.  Look at Rapp with his twenty wounds, endeavouring to exchange little delicate drolleries with that young lady.  There, you see, he has said something which would have passed very well with a vivandiere, but it has made her fly to her mamma, and he is scratching his head, for he cannot imagine how he has offended her.’

’Who is the beautiful woman with the white dress and the tiara of diamonds?’ I asked.

’That is Madame Murat, who is the sister of the Emperor.  Caroline is beautiful, but she is not as pretty as her sister Marie, whom you see over yonder in the corner.  Do you see the tall stately dark-eyed old lady with whom she is talking?  That is Napoleon’s mother—­a wonderful woman, the source of all their strength, shrewd, brave, vigorous, forcing respect from everyone who knows her.  She is as careful and as saving as when she was the wife of a small country gentleman in Corsica, and it is no secret that she has little confidence in the permanence of the present state of things, and that she is always laying by for an evil day.  The Emperor does not know whether to be amused or exasperated by her precautions.  Well, Murat, I suppose we shall see you riding across the Kentish hop-fields before long.’

The famous soldier had paused opposite to us, and shook hands with my companion.  His elegant well-knit figure, large fiery eyes, and noble bearing made this innkeeper’s boy a man who would have drawn attention and admiration to himself in any assembly in Europe.  His mop of curly hair and thick red lips gave that touch of character and individuality to his appearance which redeem a handsome face from insipidity.