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amazed at her gestures, her voice, her beauty, they took her for an angel, and dropped on their knees around her.If Voltaire had not existed we might have thought it a new miracle.I don't know if God gave her much credit for her tardy virtue, for love after all must be a sickening thing to a woman as weary of it as a wanton of the old Opera.Mademoiselle Laguerre was born in 1740, and her hey-day was in 1760, when Monsieur (I forget his name) was called the "ministre de la guerre," on account of his liaison with her.She abandoned that name, which was quite unknown down here, and called herself Madame des Aigues, as if to merge her identity in the estate, which she delighted to improve with a taste that was profoundly artistic.When Bonaparte became First Consul, she increased her property by the purchase of church lands, for which she used the proceeds of her diamonds.As an Opera divinity never knows how to take care of her money, she intrusted the management of the estate to a steward, occupying herself with her flowers and fruits and with the beautifying of the park.

After Mademoiselle was dead and buried at Blangy, the notary of Soulanges--that little town which lies between Ville-aux-Fayes and Blangy, the capital of the township--made an elaborate inventory, and sought out the heirs of the singer, who never knew she had any.Eleven families of poor laborers living near Amiens, and sleeping in cotton sheets, awoke one fine morning in golden ones.The property was sold at auction.Les Aigues was bought by Montcornet, who had laid by enough during his campaigns in Spain and Pomerania to make the purchase, which cost about eleven hundred thousand francs, including the furniture.The general, no doubt, felt the influence of these luxurious apartments; and I was arguing with the countess only yesterday that her marriage was a direct result of the purchase of Les Aigues.

To rightly understand the countess, my dear Nathan, you must know that the general is a violent man, red as fire, five feet nine inches tall, round as a tower, with a thick neck and the shoulders of a blacksmith, which must have amply filled his cuirass.Montcornet commanded the cuirassiers at the battle of Essling (called by the Austrians Gross-

Aspern), and came near perishing when that noble corps was driven back on the Danube.He managed to cross the river astride a log of wood.

The cuirassiers, finding the bridge down, took the glorious resolution, at Montcornet's command, to turn and resist the entire Austrian army, which carried off on the morrow over thirty wagon-loads of cuirasses.The Germans invented a name for their enemies on this occasion which means "men of iron."[*] Montcornet has the outer man of a hero of antiquity.His arms are stout and vigorous, his chest deep and broad; his head has a leonine aspect, his voice is of those that can order a charge in the thick of battle; but he has nothing more than the courage of a daring man; he lacks mind and breadth of view.

Like other generals to whom military common-sense, the natural boldness of those who spend their lives in danger, and the habit of command gives an appearance of superiority, Montcornet has an imposing effect when you first meet him; he seems a Titan, but he contains a dwarf, like the pasteboard giant who saluted Queen Elizabeth at the gates of Kenilworth.Choleric though kind, and full of imperial hauteur, he has the caustic tongue of a soldier, and is quick at repartee, but quicker still with a blow.He may have been superb on a battle-field; in a household he is simply intolerable.He knows no love but barrack love,--the love which those clever myth-makers, the ancients, placed under the patronage of Eros, son of Mars and Venus.

Those delightful chroniclers of the old religions provided themselves with a dozen different Loves.Study the fathers and the attributes of these Loves, and you will discover a complete social nomenclature,--

and yet we fancy that we originate things! When the world turns upside down like an hour-glass, when the seas become continents, Frenchmen will find canons, steamboats, newspapers, and maps wrapped up in seaweed at the bottom of what is now our ocean.

[*] I do not, on principle, like foot-notes, and this is the first I have ever allowed myself.Its historical interest must be my excuse; it will prove, moreover, that descriptions of battles should be something more than the dry particulars of technical writers, who for the last three thousand years have told us about left and right wings and centres being broken or driven in, but never a word about the soldier himself, his sufferings, and his heroism.The conscientious care with which I prepared myself to write the "Scenes from Military Life," led me to many a battle-

field once wet with the blood of France and her enemies.Among them I went to Wagram.When I reached the shores of the Danube, opposite Lobau, I noticed on the bank, which is covered with turf, certain undulations that reminded me of the furrows in a field of lucern.I asked the reason of it, thinking I should hear of some new method of agriculture: "There sleep the cavalry of the imperial guard," said the peasant who served us as a guide; "those are their graves you see there." The words made me shudder.Prince Frederic Schwartzenburg, who translated them, added that the man had himself driven one of the wagons laden with cuirasses.By one of the strange chances of war our guide had served a breakfast to Napoleon on the morning of the battle of Wagram.Though poor, he had kept the double napoleon which the Emperor gave him for his milk and his eggs.The curate of Gross-Aspern took us to the famous cemetery where French and Austrians struggled together knee-deep in blood, with a courage and obstinacy glorious to each.