ademoiselle Reine an
easy prey.  "How those sleeve-buttons will suit me!"
thought he, as he fixed a pair on the fat pudgy wrists of
Mr. Sedley.  "I long for sleeve-buttons; and the Captain's
boots with brass spurs, in the next room, corbleu!  what
an effect they will make in the Allee Verte!" So while
Monsieur Isidor with bodily fingers was holding on to his
master's nose, and shaving the lower part of Jos's face,
his imagination was rambling along the Green Avenue,
dressed out in a frogged coat and lace, and in company
with Mademoiselle Reine; he was loitering in spirit on
the banks, and examining the barges sailing slowly under
the cool shadows of the trees by the canal, or refreshing
himself with a mug of Faro at the bench of a beer-house
on the road to Laeken.

But Mr. Joseph Sedley, luckily for his own peace, no
more knew what was passing in his domestic's mind than
the respected reader, and I suspect what John or Mary,
whose wages we pay, think of ourselves.  What our
servants think of us!--Did we know what our intimates and
dear relations thought of us, we should live in a world
that we should be glad to quit, and in a frame of mind
and a constant terror, that would be perfectly unbearable.
So Jos's man was marking his victim down, as you
see one of Mr. Paynter's assistants in Leadenhall Street
ornament an unconscious turtle with a placard on which
is written, "Soup to-morrow."

Amelia's attendant was much less selfishly disposed.
Few dependents could come near that kind and gentle
creature without paying their usual tribute of loyalty
and affection to her sweet and affectionate nature.  And
it is a fact that Pauline, the cook, consoled her mistress
more than anybody whom she saw on this wretched
morning; for when she found how Amelia remained for hours,
silent, motionless, and haggard, by the windows in which
she had placed herself to watch the last bayonets of the
column as it marched away, the honest girl took the
lady's hand, and said, Tenez, Madame, est-ce qu'il n'est
pas aussi a l'armee, mon homme a moi?  with which
she burst into tears, and Amelia falling into her arms,
did likewise, and so each pitied and soothed the other.

Several times during the forenoon Mr. Jos's Isidor
went from his lodgings into the town, and to the gates
of the hotels and lodging-houses round about the Parc,
where the English were congregated, and there mingled
with other valets, couriers, and lackeys, gathered such
news as was abroad, and brought back bulletins for his
master's information.  Almost all these gentlemen were in
heart partisans of the Emperor, and had their opinions
about the speedy end of the campaign.  The Emperor's
proclamation from Avesnes had been distributed
everywhere plentifully in Brussels.  "Soldiers!"  it said, "this
is the anniversary of Marengo and Friedland, by which the
destinies of Europe were twice decided.  Then, as after
Austerlitz, as after Wagram, we were too generous.  We
believed in the oaths and promises of princes whom we
suffered to remain upon their thrones.  Let us march once
more to meet them.  We and they, are we not still the
same men?  Soldiers!  these same Prussians who are so
arrogant to-day, were three to one against you at Jena,
and six to one at Montmirail.  Those among you who
were prisoners in England can tell their comrades what
frightful torments they suffered on board the English
hulks.  Madmen!  a moment of prosperity has blinded
them, and if they enter into France it will be to find a
grave there!"  But the partisans of the French prophesied
a more speedy extermination of the Emperor's enemies
than this; and it was agreed on all hands that Prussians
and British would never return except as prisoners in the
rear of the conquering army.

These opinions in the course of the day were brought
to operate upon Mr. Sedley.  He was told that the Duke
of Wellington had gone to try and rally his army, the
advance of which had been utterly crushed the night
before.

"Crushed, psha!" said Jos, whose heart was pretty
stout at breakfast-time.  "The Duke has gone to beat the
Emperor as he has beaten all his generals before."

"His papers are burned, his effects are removed, and his
quarters are being got ready for the Duke of Dalmatia,"
Jos's informant replied.  "I had it from his own maitre
d'hotel.  Milor Duc de Richemont's people are packing
up everything.  His Grace has fled already, and the
Duchess is only waiting to see the plate packed to join the
King of France at Ostend."

"The King of France is at Ghent, fellow," replied Jos,
affecting incredulity.

"He fled last night to Bruges, and embarks today from
Ostend.  The Duc de Berri is taken prisoner.  Those who
wish to be safe had better go soon, for the dykes will
be opened to-morrow, and who can fly when the whole
country is under water?"

"Nonsense, sir, we are three to one, sir, against any
force Boney can bring into the field," Mr. Sedley
objected; "the Austrians and the Russians are on their
march.  He must, he shall be crushed," Jos said, slapping
his hand on the table.

"The Prussians were three to one at Jena, and he
took their army and kingdom in a week.  They were
six to one at Montmirail, and he scattered them like sheep.
The Austrian army is coming, but with the Empress and
the King of Rome at its head; and the Russians, bah!
the Russians will withdraw.  No quarter is to be given
to the English, on account of their cruelty to our braves
on board the infamous pontoons.  Look here, here it is
in black and white.  Here's the proclamation of his
Majesty the Emperor and King," said the now declared
partisan of Napoleon, and taking the document from his
pocket, Isidor sternly thrust it into his master's face,
and already looked upon the frogged coat and valuables
as his own spoil.

Jos was, if not seriously alarmed as yet, at least
considerably disturbed in mind.  "Give me my coat and cap,
sir, said he, "and follow me.  I will go myself and learn
the truth of these reports." Isidor was furious as Jos put
on the braided frock.  "Milor had better.not wear that
military coat," said he; "the Frenchmen have sworn not
to give quarter to a single British soldier."

"Silence, sirrah!" said Jos, with a resolute countenance
still, and thrust his arm into the sleeve with indomitable
resolution, in the performance of which heroic act he
was found by Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, who at this juncture
came up to visit Amelia, and entered without ringing
at the antechamber door.

Rebecca was dressed very neatly and smartly, as usual:
her quiet sleep after Rawdon's departure had refreshed
her, and her pink smiling cheeks were quite pleasant to
look at, in a town and on a day when everybody else's
countenance wore the appearance of the deepest anxiety
and gloom.  She laughed at the attitude in which Jos was
discovered, and the struggles and convulsions with which
the stout gentleman thrust himself into the braided coat.

"Are you preparing to join the army, Mr. Joseph?"
she said.  "Is there to be nobody left in Brussels to
protect us poor women?"  Jos succeeded in plunging into
the coat, and came forward blushing and stuttering out
excuses to his fair visitor.  "How was she after the events
of the morning--after the fatigues of the ball the night
before?"  Monsieur Isidor disappeared into his master's
adjacent bedroom, bearing off the flowered dressing-gown.

"How good of you to ask," said she, pressing one of
his hands in both her own.  "How cool and collected you
look when everybody else is frightened!  How is our dear
little Emmy?  It must have been an awful, awful parting."

"Tremendous," Jos said.

"You men can bear anything," replied the lady.  "Parting
or danger are nothing to you.  Own now that you
were going to join the army and leave us to our fate.
I know you were--something tells me you were.  I was
so frightened, when the thought came into my head (for
I do sometimes think of you when I am alone, Mr.
Joseph), that I ran off immediately to beg and entreat
you not to fly from us."

This speech might be interpreted, "My dear sir, should
an accident befall the army, and a retreat be necessary,
you have a very comfortable carriage, in which I
propose to take a seat." I don't know whether Jos
understood the words in this sense.  But he was profoundly
mortified by the lady's inattention to him during their
stay at Brussels.  He had never been presented to any
of Rawdon Crawley's great acquaintances:  he had scarcely
been invited to Rebecca's parties; for he was too timid
to play much, and his presence bored George and Rawdon
equally, who neither of them, perhaps, liked to have a
witness of the amusements in which the pair chose to
indulge.  "Ah!" thought Jos, "now she wants me she
comes to me.  When there is nobody else in the way she
can think about old Joseph Sedley!"  But besides these
doubts he felt flattered at the idea Rebecca expressed
of his courage.

He blushed a good deal, and put on an air of importance.
"I should like to see the action," he said.  "Every
man of any spirit would, you know.  I've seen a little
service in India, but nothing on this grand scale."

"You men would sacrifice anything for a pleasure,"
Rebecca answered.  "Captain Crawley left me this morning
as gay as if he were going to a hunting party.  What
does he care?  What do any of you care for the agonies
and tortures of a poor forsaken woman?  (I wonder
whether he could really have been going to the troops,
this great lazy gourmand?)  Oh!  dear Mr. Sedley, I have
come to you for comfort--for consolation.  I have been
on my knees all the morning.  I tremble at the frightful
danger into which our husbands, our friends, our brave
troops and allies, are rushing.  And I come here for shelter,
and find another of my friends--the last remaining to
me--bent upon plunging into the dreadful scene!"

"My dear madam," Jos replied, now beginning to be
quite soothed, "don't be alarmed.  I only said I should
like to go--what Briton would not?  But my duty keeps
me here:  I can't leave that poor creature in the next
room." And he pointed with his finger to the door of
the chamber in which Amelia was.

"Good noble brother!" Rebecca said, putting her
handkerchief to her eyes, and smelling the eau-de-cologne
with which it was scented.  "I have done you injustice:
you have got a heart.  I thought you had not."

"O, upon my honour!" Jos said, making a motion as
if he would lay his hand upon the spot in question.  "You
do me injustice, indeed you do--my dear Mrs. Crawley."

"I do, now your heart is true to your sister.  But I
remember two years ago--when it was false to me!"
Rebecca said, fixing her eyes upon him for an instant, and
then turning away into the window.

Jos blushed violently.  That organ which he was
accused by Rebecca of not possessing began to thump
tumultuously.  He recalled the days when he had fled from
her, and the passion which had once inflamed him--the
days when he had driven her in his curricle:  when she
had knit the green purse for him:  when he had sate
enraptured gazing at her white arms and bright eyes.

"I know you think me ungrateful," Rebecca continued,
coming out of the window, and once more looking at
him and addressing him in a low tremulous voice.  "Your
coldness, your averted looks, your manner when we have
met of late--when I came in just now, all proved it to
me.  But were there no reasons why I should avoid you?
Let your own heart answer that question.  Do you think
my husband was too much inclined to welcome you?
The only unkind words I have ever had from him (I
will do Captain Crawley that justice) have been about
you--and most cruel, cruel words they were."

"Good gracious! what have I done?" asked Jos in a
flurry of pleasure and perplexity; "what have I done--
to--to--?"

"Is jealousy nothing?" said Rebecca.  "He makes me
miserable about you.  And whatever it might have been
once--my heart is all his.  I am innocent now.  Am I
not, Mr. Sedley?"

All Jos's blood tingled with delight, as he surveyed
this victim to his attractions.  A few adroit words, one
or two knowing tender glances of the eyes, and his heart
was inflamed again and his doubts and suspicions
forgotten.  From Solomon downwards, have not wiser men
than he been cajoled and befooled by women?  "If the
worst comes to the worst," Becky thought, "my retreat
is secure; and I have a right-hand seat in the barouche."

There is no knowing into what declarations of love
and ardour the tumultuous passions of Mr. Joseph
might have led him, if Isidor the valet had not made
his reappearance at this minute, and begun to busy
himself about the domestic affairs.  Jos, who was just going
to gasp out an avowal, choked almost with the emotion
that he was obliged to restrain.  Rebecca too bethought
her that it was time she should go in and comfort her
dearest Amelia.  "Au revoir," she said, kissing her hand
to Mr. Joseph, and tapped gently at the door of his
sister's apartment.  As she entered and closed the door
on herself, he sank down in a chair, and gazed and
sighed and puffed portentously.  "That coat is very tight
for Milor," Isidor said, still having his eye on the frogs;
but his master heard him not:  his thoughts were
elsewhere:  now glowing, maddening, upon the contemplation
of the enchanting Rebecca:  anon shrinking guiltily
before the vision of the jealous Rawdon Crawley, with his
curling, fierce mustachios, and his terrible duelling pistols
loaded and cocked.

Rebecca's appearance struck Amelia with terror, and
made her shrink back.  It recalled her to the world and
the remembrance of yesterday.  In the overpowering fears
about to-morrow she had forgotten Rebecca--jealousy--
everything except that her husband was gone and was
in danger.  Until this dauntless worldling came in and
broke the spell, and lifted the latch, we too have
forborne to enter into that sad chamber.  How long had that
poor girl been on her knees!  what hours of speechless
prayer and bitter prostration had she passed there!  The
war-chroniclers who write brilliant stories of fight and
triumph scarcely tell us of these.  These are too mean
parts of the pageant:  and you don't hear widows' cries
or mothers' sobs in the midst of the shouts and jubilation
in the great Chorus of Victory.  And yet when was
the time that such have not cried out:  heart-broken,
humble protestants, unheard in the uproar of the triumph!

After the first movement of terror in Amelia's mind
--when Rebecca's green eyes lighted upon her, and
rustling in her fresh silks and brilliant ornaments, the latter
tripped up with extended arms to embrace her--a feeling
of anger succeeded, and from being deadly pale before,
her face flushed up red, and she returned Rebecca's look
after a moment with a steadiness which surprised and
somewhat abashed her rival.

"Dearest Amelia, you are very unwell," the visitor said,
putting forth her hand to take Amelia's.  "What is it?
I could not rest until I knew how you were."

Amelia drew back her hand--never since her life
began had that gentle soul refused to believe or to
answer any demonstration of good-will or affection.  But
she drew back her hand, and trembled all over.  "Why
are you here, Rebecca?" she said, still looking at her
solemnly with her large eyes.  These glances troubled her
visitor.

"She must have seen him give me the letter at the
ball," Rebecca thought.  "Don't be agitated, dear Amelia,"
she said, looking down.  "I came but to see if I could--
if you were well."

"Are you well?" said Amelia.  "I dare say you are.
You don't love your husband.  You would not be here if
you did.  Tell me, Rebecca, did I ever do you anything
but kindness?"

"Indeed, Amelia, no," the other said, still hanging
down her head.

"When you were quite poor, who was it that befriended
you?  Was I not a sister to you?  You saw us
all in happier days before he married me.  I was all in
all then to him; or would he have given up his fortune,
his family, as he nobly did to make me happy?  Why did
you come between my love and me?  Who sent you to
separate those whom God joined, and take my darling's
heart from me-- my own husband? Do you think you
could I love him as I did?  His love was everything to me.
You knew it, and wanted to rob me of it.  For shame,
Rebecca; bad and wicked woman--false friend and false
wife."

"Amelia, I protest before God, I have done my
husband no wrong," Rebecca said, turning from her.

"Have you done me no wrong, Rebecca?  You did not
succeed, but you tried.  Ask your heart if you did not."

She knows nothing, Rebecca thought.

"He came back to me.  I knew he would.  I knew that
no falsehood, no flattery, could keep him from me long.
I knew he would come.  I prayed so that he should."

The poor girl spoke these words with a spirit and
volubility which Rebecca had never before seen in her,
and before which the latter was quite dumb.  "But what
have I done to you," she continued in a more pitiful tone,
"that you should try and take him from me?  I had him
but for six weeks.  You might have spared me those,
Rebecca.  And yet, from the very first day of our wedding,
you came and blighted it.  Now he is gone, are you come
to see how unhappy I am?" she continued.  "You made
me wretched enough for the past fortnight:  you might
have spared me to-day."

"I--I never came here," interposed Rebecca, with
unlucky truth.

"No.  You didn't come.  You took him away.  Are you
come to fetch him from me?" she continued in a wilder
tone.  "He was here, but he is gone now.  There on that
very sofa he sate.  Don't touch it.  We sate and talked
there.  I was on his knee, and my arms were round his
neck, and we said 'Our Father.' Yes, he was here:  and
they came and took him away, but he promised me to
come back."

"He will come back, my dear," said Rebecca, touched
in spite of herself.

"Look," said Amelia, "this is his sash--isn't it a pretty
colour?'' and she took up the fringe and kissed it.  She
had tied it round her waist at some part of the day.  She
had forgotten her anger, her jealousy, the very presence
of her rival seemingly.  For she walked silently and almost
with a smile on her face, towards the bed, and began to
smooth down George's pillow.

Rebecca walked, too, silently away.  "How is Amelia?"
asked Jos, who still held his position in the chair.

"There should be somebody with her," said Rebecca.
"I think she is very unwell":  and she went away with a
very grave face, refusing Mr. Sedley's entreaties that she
would stay and partake of the early dinner which he had
ordered.

Rebecca was of a good-natured and obliging disposition;
and she liked Amelia rather than otherwise.  Even
her hard words, reproachful as they were, were
complimentary--the groans of a person stinging under defeat.
Meeting Mrs. O'Dowd, whom the Dean's sermons had
by no means comforted, and who was walking very
disconsolately in the Parc, Rebecca accosted the latter,
rather to the surprise of the Major's wife, who was not
accustomed to such marks of politeness from Mrs.
Rawdon Crawley, and informing her that poor little Mrs.
Osborne was in a desperate condition, and almost mad
with grief, sent off the good-natured Irishwoman straight
to see if she could console her young favourite.

"I've cares of my own enough," Mrs. O'Dowd said,
gravely, "and I thought poor Amelia would be little
wanting for company this day.  But if she's so bad as you
say, and you can't attend to her, who used to be so
fond of her, faith I'll see if I can be of service.  And so
good marning to ye, Madam"; with which speech and a
toss of her head, the lady of the repayther took a
farewell of Mrs. Crawley, whose company she by no means
courted.

Becky watched her marching off, with a smile on her
lip.  She had the keenest sense of humour, and the
Parthian look which the retreating Mrs. O'Dowd flung
over her shoulder almost upset Mrs. Crawley's gravity.
"My service to ye, me fine Madam, and I'm glad to see
ye so cheerful," thought Peggy.  "It's not YOU that will cry
your eyes out with grief, anyway." And with this she
passed on, and speedily found her way to Mrs. Osborne's
lodgings.

The poor soul was still at the bedside, where Rebecca
had left her, and stood almost crazy with grief.  The
Major's wife, a stronger-minded woman, endeavoured her
best to comfort her young friend.  "You must bear up,
Amelia, dear," she said kindly, "for he mustn't find you
ill when he sends for you after the victory.  It's not you
are the only woman that are in the hands of God this
day."

"I know that.  I am very wicked, very weak," Amelia
said.  She knew her own weakness well enough.  The
presence of the more resolute friend checked it, however; and
she was the better of this control and company.  They
went on till two o'clock; their hearts were with the column
as it marched farther and farther away.  Dreadful doubt
and anguish--prayers and fears and griefs unspeakable--
followed the regiment.  It was the women's tribute to the
war.  It taxes both alike, and takes the blood of the men,
and the tears of the women.

At half-past two, an event occurred of daily importance
to Mr. Joseph: the dinner-hour arrived.  Warriors
may fight and perish, but he must dine.  He came into
Amelia's room to see if he could coax her to share that
meal.  "Try," said he; "the soup is very good.  Do try,
Emmy," and he kissed her hand.  Except when she was
married, he had not done so much for years before.  "You
are very good and kind, Joseph," she said.  "Everybody
is, but, if you please, I will stay in my room to-day."

The savour of the soup, however, was agreeable to
Mrs. O'Dowd's nostrils: and she thought she would bear
Mr. Jos company.  So the two sate down to their meal.
"God bless the meat," said the Major's wife, solemnly:
she was thinking of her honest Mick, riding at the head
of his regiment:  " 'Tis but a bad dinner those poor
boys will get to-day," she said, with a sigh, and then,
like a philosopher, fell to.

Jos's spirits rose with his meal.  He would drink the
regiment's health; or, indeed, take any other excuse to
indulge in a glass of champagne.  "We'll drink to O'Dowd
and the brave --th," said he, bowing gallantly to his
guest.  "Hey, Mrs. O'Dowd?  Fill Mrs. O'Dowd's glass,
Isidor."

But all of a sudden, Isidor started, and the Major's
wife laid down her knife and fork.  The windows of the
room were open, and looked southward, and a dull distant
sound came over the sun-lighted roofs from that
direction.  ''What is it?" said Jos.  "Why don't you pour, you
rascal?"

"Cest le feu!" said Isidor, running to the balcony.

"God defend us; it's cannon!" Mrs. O'Dowd cried,
starting up, and followed too to the window.  A thousand
pale and anxious faces might have been seen looking
from other casements.  And presently it seemed as if the
whole population of the city rushed into the streets.




CHAPTER XXXII

In Which Jos Takes Flight, and the War Is Brought to a Close

We of peaceful London City have never beheld--and
please God never shall witness--such a scene of hurry
and alarm, as that which Brussels presented.  Crowds
rushed to the Namur gate, from which direction the noise
proceeded, and many rode along the level chaussee, to
be in advance of any intelligence from the army.  Each
man asked his neighbour for news; and even great
English lords and ladies condescended to speak to persons
whom they did not know.  The friends of the French went
abroad, wild with excitement, and prophesying the
triumph of their Emperor.  The merchants closed their
shops, and came out to swell the general chorus of alarm
and clamour.  Women rushed to the churches, and
crowded the chapels, and knelt and prayed on the flags
and steps.  The dull sound of the cannon went on rolling,
rolling.  Presently carriages with travellers began to leave
the town, galloping away by the Ghent barrier.  The
prophecies of the French partisans began to pass for
facts.  "He has cut the armies in two," it was said.  "He is
marching straight on Brussels.  He will overpower the
English, and be here to-night." "He will overpower the
English," shrieked Isidor to his master, "and will be here
to-night." The man bounded in and out from the lodgings
to the street, always returning with some fresh particulars
of disaster.  Jos's face grew paler and paler.  Alarm began
to take entire possession of the stout civilian.  All the
champagne he drank brought no courage to him.  Before
sunset he was worked up to such a pitch of nervousness
as gratified his friend Isidor to behold, who now counted
surely upon the spoils of the owner of the laced coat.

The women were away all this time.  After hearing
the firing for a moment, the stout Major's wife bethought
her of her friend in the next chamber, and ran in to watch,
and if possible to console, Amelia.  The idea that she had
that helpless and gentle creature to protect, gave
additional strength to the natural courage of the honest
Irishwoman.  She passed five hours by her friend's side,
sometimes in remonstrance, sometimes talking cheerfully,
oftener in silence and terrified mental supplication.  "I
never let go her hand once," said the stout lady
afterwards, "until after sunset, when the firing was over."
Pauline, the bonne, was on her knees at church hard by,
praying for son homme a elle.

When the noise of the cannonading was over, Mrs.
O'Dowd issued out of Amelia's room into the parlour
adjoining, where Jos sate with two emptied flasks, and
courage entirely gone.  Once or twice he had ventured into
his sister's bedroom, looking very much alarmed, and
as if he would say something.  But the Major's wife kept
her place, and he went away without disburthening
himself of his speech.  He was ashamed to tell her that he
wanted to fly.

But when she made her appearance in the dining-room,
where he sate in the twilight in the cheerless company
of his empty champagne bottles, he began to open his
mind to her.

"Mrs. O'Dowd," he said, "hadn't you better get Amelia
ready?"

"Are you going to take her out for a walk?" said the
Major's lady; "sure she's too weak to stir."

"I--I've ordered the carriage," he said, "and--and
post-horses; Isidor is gone for them," Jos continued.

"What do you want with driving to-night?" answered
the lady.  "Isn't she better on her bed?  I've just got her
to lie down."

"Get her up," said Jos; "she must get up, I say":  and
he stamped his foot energetically.  "I say the horses are
ordered--yes, the horses are ordered.  It's all over, and--"

"And what?" asked Mrs. O'Dowd.

"I'm off for Ghent," Jos answered.  "Everybody is
going; there's a place for you!  We shall start in half-an-
hour."

The Major's wife looked at him with infinite scorn.  "I
don't move till O'Dowd gives me the route," said she.
"You may go if you like, Mr. Sedley; but, faith, Amelia
and I stop here."

"She SHALL go," said Jos, with another stamp of his
foot.  Mrs. O'Dowd put herself with arms akimbo before
the bedroom door.

"Is it her mother you're going to take her to?" she
said; "or do you want to go to Mamma yourself, Mr.
Sedley?  Good marning--a pleasant journey to ye, sir.
Bon voyage, as they say, and take my counsel, and shave
off them mustachios, or they'll bring you into mischief."

"D--n!" yelled out Jos, wild with fear, rage, and
mortification; and Isidor came in at this juncture, swearing in
his turn.  "Pas de chevaux, sacre bleu!" hissed out the
furious domestic.  All the horses were gone.  Jos was
not the only man in Brussels seized with panic that day.

But Jos's fears, great and cruel as they were already,
were destined to increase to an almost frantic pitch
before the night was over.  It has been mentioned how
Pauline, the bonne, had son homme a elle also in the
ranks of the army that had gone out to meet the Emperor
Napoleon.  This lover was a native of Brussels, and a
Belgian hussar.  The troops of his nation signalised
themselves in this war for anything but courage, and young
Van Cutsum, Pauline's admirer, was too good a soldier
to disobey his Colonel's orders to run away.  Whilst in
garrison at Brussels young Regulus (he had been born in
the revolutionary times) found his great comfort, and
passed almost all his leisure moments, in Pauline's
kitchen; and it was with pockets and holsters crammed
full of good things from her larder, that he had take
leave of his weeping sweetheart, to proceed upon the
campaign a few days before.

As far as his regiment was concerned, this campaign
was over now.  They had formed a part of the division
under the command of his Sovereign apparent, the Prince
of Orange, and as respected length of swords and
mustachios, and the richness of uniform and equipments,
Regulus and his comrades looked to be as gallant a body
of men as ever trumpet sounded for.

When Ney dashed upon the advance of the allied
troops, carrying one position after the other, until the
arrival of the great body of the British army from
Brussels changed the aspect of the combat of Quatre Bras,
the squadrons among which Regulus rode showed the
greatest activity in retreating before the French, and were
dislodged from one post and another which they occupied
with perfect alacrity on their part.  Their movements
were only checked by the advance of the British in their
rear.  Thus forced to halt, the enemy's cavalry (whose
bloodthirsty obstinacy cannot be too severely
reprehended) had at length an opportunity of coming to close
quarters with the brave Belgians before them; who
preferred to encounter the British rather than the French,
and at once turning tail rode through the English
regiments that were behind them, and scattered in all
directions.  The regiment in fact did not exist any more.  It was
nowhere.  It had no head-quarters.  Regulus found himself
galloping many miles from the field of action, entirely
alone; and whither should he fly for refuge so naturally
as to that kitchen and those faithful arms in which
Pauline had so often welcomed him?

At some ten o'clock the clinking of a sabre might have
been heard up the stair of the house where the Osbornes
occupied a story in the continental fashion.  A knock
might have been heard at the kitchen door; and poor
Pauline, come back from church, fainted almost with
terror as she opened it and saw before her her haggard
hussar.  He looked as pale as the midnight dragoon who
came to disturb Leonora.  Pauline would have screamed,
but that her cry would have called her masters, and
discovered her friend.  She stifled her scream, then, and
leading her hero into the kitchen, gave him beer, and
the choice bits from the dinner, which Jos had not had
the heart to taste.  The hussar showed he was no ghost by
the prodigious quantity of flesh and beer which he
devoured--and during the mouthfuls he told his tale of
disaster.

His regiment had performed prodigies of courage, and
had withstood for a while the onset of the whole French
army.  But they were overwhelmed at last, as was the
whole British army by this time.  Ney destroyed each
regiment as it came up.  The Belgians in vain interposed to
prevent the butchery of the English.  The Brunswickers
were routed and had fled--their Duke was killed.  It was
a general debacle.  He sought to drown his sorrow for
the defeat in floods of beer.

Isidor, who had come into the kitchen, heard the
conversation and rushed out to inform his master.  "It is
all over," he shrieked to Jos.  "Milor Duke is a prisoner;
the Duke of Brunswick is killed; the British army is in
full flight; there is only one man escaped, and he is in the
kitchen now--come and hear him." So Jos tottered into
that apartment where Regulus still sate on the kitchen
table, and clung fast to his flagon of beer.  In the best
French which he could muster, and which was in sooth
of a very ungrammatical sort, Jos besought the hussar to
tell his tale.  The disasters deepened as Regulus spoke.  He
was the only man of his regiment not slain on the field.
He had seen the Duke of Brunswick fall, the black
hussars fly, the Ecossais pounded down by the cannon.
"And the --th?" gasped Jos.

"Cut in pieces," said the hussar--upon which Pauline
cried out, "O my mistress, ma bonne petite dame," went
off fairly into hysterics, and filled the house with her
screams.

Wild with terror, Mr. Sedley knew not how or where
to seek for safety.  He rushed from the kitchen back to
the sitting-room, and cast an appealing look at Amelia's
door, which Mrs. O'Dowd had closed and locked in his
face; but he remembered how scornfully the latter had
received him, and after pausing and listening for a brief
space at the door, he left it, and resolved to go into the
street, for the first time that day.  So, seizing a candle, he
looked about for his gold-laced cap, and found it lying in its
usual place, on a console-table, in the anteroom, placed
before a mirror at which Jos used to coquet, always
giving his side-locks a twirl, and his cap the proper cock
over his eye, before he went forth to make appearance in
public.  Such is the force of habit, that even in the midst
of his terror he began mechanically to twiddle with his
hair, and arrange the cock of his hat.  Then he looked
amazed at the pale face in the glass before him, and
especially at his mustachios, which had attained a rich
growth in the course of near seven weeks, since they had
come into the world.  They WILL mistake me for a military
man, thought he, remembering Isidor's warning as
to the massacre with which all the defeated British army
was threatened; and staggering back to his bedchamber,
he began wildly pulling the bell which summoned his
valet.

Isidor answered that summons.  Jos had sunk in a chair
--he had torn off his neckcloths, and turned down his
collars, and was sitting with both his hands lifted to his
throat.

"Coupez-moi, Isidor," shouted he; "vite!  Coupez-moi!"

Isidor thought for a moment he had gone mad, and
that he wished his valet to cut his throat.

"Les moustaches," gasped Joe; "les moustaches--
coupy, rasy, vite!"--his French was of this sort--voluble,
as we have said, but not remarkable for grammar.

Isidor swept off the mustachios in no time with the
razor, and heard with inexpressible delight his master's
orders that he should fetch a hat and a plain coat.  "Ne
porty ploo--habit militair--bonn--bonny a voo, prenny
dehors"--were Jos's words--the coat and cap were at
last his property.

This gift being made, Jos selected a plain black coat
and waistcoat from his stock, and put on a large white
neckcloth, and a plain beaver.  If he could have got a
shovel hat he would have worn it.  As it was, you would
have fancied he was a flourishing, large parson of the
Church of England.

"Venny maintenong," he continued, "sweevy--ally--
party--dong la roo." And so having said, he plunged
swiftly down the stairs of the house, and passed into the
street.

Although Regulus had vowed that he was the only
man of his regiment or of the allied army, almost, who
had escaped being cut to pieces by Ney, it appeared
that his statement was incorrect, and that a good number
more of the supposed victims had survived the massacre.
Many scores of Regulus's comrades had found their way
back to Brussels, and all agreeing that they had run
away--filled the whole town with an idea of the defeat
of the allies.  The arrival of the French was expected
hourly; the panic continued, and preparations for flight
went on everywhere.  No horses!  thought Jos, in terror.
He made Isidor inquire of scores of persons, whether
they had any to lend or sell, and his heart sank within
him, at the negative answers returned everywhere.  Should
he take the journey on foot?  Even fear could not render
that ponderous body so active.

Almost all the hotels occupied by the English in Brussels
face the Parc, and Jos wandered irresolutely about
in this quarter, with crowds of other people, oppressed as
he was by fear and curiosity.  Some families he saw more
happy than himself, having discovered a team of horses,
and rattling through the streets in retreat; others again
there were whose case was like his own, and who
could not for any bribes or entreaties procure the
necessary means of flight.  Amongst these would-be fugitives,
Jos remarked the Lady Bareacres and her daughter, who
sate in their carriage in the porte-cochere of their hotel,
all their imperials packed, and the only drawback to
whose flight was the same want of motive power which
kept Jos stationary.

Rebecca Crawley occupied apartments in this hotel;
and had before this period had sundry hostile meetings
with the ladies of the Bareacres family.  My Lady
Bareacres cut Mrs. Crawley on the stairs when they met
by chance; and in all places where the latter's name was
mentioned, spoke perseveringly ill of her neighbour.  The
Countess was shocked at the familiarity of General Tufto
with the aide-de-camp's wife.  The Lady Blanche avoided
her as if she had been an infectious disease.  Only the
Earl himself kept up a sly occasional acquaintance with
her, when out of the jurisdiction of his ladies.

Rebecca had her revenge now upon these insolent
enemies.  If became known in the hotel that Captain
Crawley's horses had been left behind, and when the
panic began, Lady Bareacres condescended to send her
maid to the Captain's wife with her Ladyship's compliments,
and a desire to know the price of Mrs. Crawley's
horses.  Mrs. Crawley returned a note with her compliments,
and an intimation that it was not her custom to
transact bargains with ladies' maids.

This curt reply brought the Earl in person to Becky's
apartment; but he could get no more success than the
first ambassador.  "Send a lady's maid to ME!" Mrs.
Crawley cried in great anger; "why didn't my Lady
Bareacres tell me to go and saddle the horses!  Is it her
Ladyship that wants to escape, or her Ladyship's femme
de chambre?"  And this was all the answer that the Earl
bore back to his Countess.

What will not necessity do?  The Countess herself
actually came to wait upon Mrs. Crawley on the failure
of her second envoy.  She entreated her to name her own
price; she even offered to invite Becky to Bareacres
House, if the latter would but give her the means of
returning to that residence.  Mrs. Crawley sneered at her.

"I don't want to be waited on by bailiffs in livery," she
said; "you will never get back though most probably--
at least not you and your diamonds together.  The French
will have those They will be here in two hours, and I
shall be half way to Ghent by that time.  I would not sell
you my horses, no, not for the two largest diamonds that
your Ladyship wore at the ball."  Lady Bareacres trembled
with rage and terror.  The diamonds were sewed into her
habit, and secreted in my Lord's padding and boots.
"Woman, the diamonds are at the banker's, and I WILL
have the horses," she said.  Rebecca laughed in her face.
The infuriate Countess went below, and sate in her
carriage; her maid, her courier, and her husband were sent
once more through the town, each to look for cattle; and
woe betide those who came last!  Her Ladyship was
resolved on departing the very instant the horses arrived
from any quarter--with her husband or without him.

Rebecca had the pleasure of seeing her Ladyship in
the horseless carriage, and keeping her eyes fixed upon
her, and bewailing, in the loudest tone of voice, the
Countess's perplexities.  "Not to be able to get horses!"
she said, "and to have all those diamonds sewed into the
carriage cushions!  What a prize it will be for the French
when they come!--the carriage and the diamonds, I mean;
not the lady!"  She gave this information to the landlord,
to the servants, to the guests, and the innumerable
stragglers about the courtyard.  Lady Bareacres could have
shot her from the carriage window.

It was while enjoying the humiliation of her enemy that
Rebecca caught sight of Jos, who made towards her
directly he perceived her.

That altered, frightened, fat face, told his secret well
enough.  He too wanted to fly, and was on the look-out
for the means of escape.  "HE shall buy my horses,"
thought Rebecca, "and I'll ride the mare."

Jos walked up to his friend, and put the question for
the hundredth time during the past hour, "Did she know
where horses were to be had?"

"What, YOU fly?" said Rebecca, with a laugh.  "I
thought you were the champion of all the ladies, Mr.
Sedley."

"I--I'm not a military man," gasped he.

"And Amelia?--Who is to protect that poor little sister
of yours?" asked Rebecca.  "You surely would not desert
her?"

"What good can I do her, suppose--suppose the enemy
arrive?" Jos answered.  "They'll spare the women; but my
man tells me that they have taken an oath to give no
quarter to the men--the dastardly cowards."

"Horrid!" cried Rebecca, enjoying his perplexity.

"Besides, I don't want to desert her," cried the brother.
"She SHAN'T be deserted.  There is a seat for her in my
carriage, and one for you, dear Mrs. Crawley, if you will
come; and if we c