In that of Napoleon at Brienne, and farther down the valley
at the village of La Rothiere, on this side of the Aube, the camp-
fires of the night were flickering in the gray morning, and far away
on the horizon were seen the dark outlines of the castle of Brienne.
There Napoleon had passed the last night of January, and in the
vicinity encamped his troops, scarcely thirty thousand strong, the
remnant of that "grand army" which the emperor had so often led to
victory.
In the camp of the Silesian army, too, all was quiet. It encamped
beyond the Aube, on the heights of Trannes and Felance, in the
vineyards and the forests of Beaulieu; it was enjoying repose after
a prolonged exposure and privation. But its commander-in-chief,
Field-Marshal Blucher, seemed to have no need of rest. Scarcely had
daylight dawned when he was already on horseback, and rode to the
crest of the mountain, by the side of his faithful adviser and
friend General Gneisenau, and followed by his pipe-master. From the
crest he was able to survey the whole valley of La Rothiers and
Brienne, lying at a distance of scarcely four miles.
Blucher raised his right arm toward the city and heaved a deep sigh.
"Gneisenau," he said, "I am deeply mortified at the defeat which
Bonaparte inflicted on us two days ago. I cannot get over it, and
can imagine what a hue-and-cry the distinguished gentlemen at
headquarters have raised, and how the trubsalsspritzen are croaking
again: Blucher is a crazy hussar who always wants to drive his head
through a wall, and yet cannot get through it, and only causes us
all a vast deal of trouble.
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