For some months past the Marshal had had many sad thoughts.  He had guessed how miserably poor his sister-in-law was, and suspected her griefs without understanding their cause.  The old man, so cheerful in his deafness, became taciturn; he could not help thinking that his house would one day be a refuge for the Baroness and her daughter; and it was for them that he kept the first floor.  The smallness of his fortune was so well known at headquarters, that the War Minister, the Prince de Wissembourg, begged his old comrade to accept a sum of money for his household expenses.  This sum the Marshal spent in furnishing the ground floor, which was in every way suitable; for, as he said, he would not accept the Marshal’s baton to walk the streets with.

The house had belonged to a senator under the Empire, and the ground floor drawing-rooms had been very magnificently fitted with carved wood, white-and-gold, still in very good preservation.  The Marshal had found some good old furniture in the same style; in the coach-house he had a carriage with two batons in saltire on the panels; and when he was expected to appear in full fig, at the Minister’s, at the Tuileries, for some ceremony or high festival, he hired horses for the job.

His servant for more than thirty years was an old soldier of sixty, whose sister was the cook, so he had saved ten thousand francs, adding it by degrees to a little hoard he intended for Hortense.  Every day the old man walked along the boulevard, from the Rue du Mont-Parnasse to the Rue Plumet; and every pensioner as he passed stood at attention, without fail, to salute him:  then the Marshal rewarded the veteran with a smile.

“Who is the man you always stand at attention to salute?” said a young workman one day to an old captain and pensioner.

“I will tell you, boy,” replied the officer.

The “boy” stood resigned, as a man does to listen to an old gossip.

“In 1809,” said the captain, “we were covering the flank of the main army, marching on Vienna under the Emperor’s command.  We came to a bridge defended by three batteries of cannon, one above another, on a sort of cliff; three redoubts like three shelves, and commanding the bridge.  We were under Marshal Massena.  That man whom you see there was Colonel of the Grenadier Guards, and I was one of them.  Our columns held one bank of the river, the batteries were on the other.  Three times they tried for the bridge, and three times they were driven back.  ‘Go and find Hulot!’ said the Marshal; ’nobody but he and his men can bolt that morsel.’  So we came.  The General, who was just retiring from the bridge, stopped Hulot under fire, to tell him how to do it, and he was in the way.  ‘I don’t want advice, but room to pass,’ said our General coolly, marching across at the head of his men.  And then, rattle, thirty guns raking us at once.”

“By Heaven!” cried the workman, “that accounts for some of these crutches!”