Thus far I had written in May 1815.
My friend, as mentioned above, had again joined the banners of his king. Before his departure he wrote to Mimili. For the greater security, he arranged that all letters should pass through my hands. Those which I received from Mimili I had opportunities of sending to him, every week, by the couriers dispatched to his corps; and by the same channel his reached me, to be forwarded to Mimili. The route which this correspondence had to travel was indeed very circuitous; but the direct communication between the canton of Berne and the Netherlands, where my friend William was quartered, was cut off; and thus I had the gratification of receiving many a line myself from the lovely girl. This pleasure, however, was not of long duration. Nearly at the same time letters ceased to arrive from either.
William’s silence was soon accounted for in the way I had feared. The covenant of love, which chance had concluded on the mountains of Switzerland, was destined to be dissolved in the plains of Waterloo. The whole Prussian army, with our gallant old marshal at their head, had marched to meet the foe, as though death had no terrors for them. Thousands upon thousands had fallen, and among them William. Two of his friends saw him sink from his horse, his head and breast streaming with blood. The
