be trampled
to death by the horses of his own soldiers.
Poor Louis Charles! He now stood entirely alone--the last friend had
left him. Death had taken away every thing, parents, crown, home,
name, friends. He was alone, all alone in the world--no man to take
any interest in him, no one to know who he was.
Sunk in sadness, he remained in Alessandria after the battle of
Marengo, and allowed his external wound to heal, while the internal
one continued to bleed. He cursed death, because it had not taken
him, while removing his last friend.
And when the wound was healed, what should he do?--under what name
and title should he be enrolled in the army? His only protector was
dead, and the adjutant was reported to have died with him. He put
off the uniform which he had worn as the soldier of the republic
which had destroyed his throne and his inheritance, and, in simple,
unpretending garments, he returned to Paris, an unknown young man.
Desaix was right; it was, indeed, something to possess a million of
francs. Poor as he was in love and happiness, this million of francs
made him at least a free and independent man, and therefore he would
demand his inheritance of him whom he formerly shunned because he
was one of the murderers of his father.
Fouche received the young man exactly as Desaix had expected.
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