not be mistaken.

"Madame," he continued, "the man of whom I tell you had but three
children left of a once large family circle. He lost his parents, his
daughter, and his wife, whom he dearly loved. He was left alone at
last on the little farm where he had lived so happily for so long. His
three sons were in the army, and each of the lads had risen in
proportion to his time of service. During the Hundred Days, the oldest
went into the Guard with a colonel's commission; the second was a
major in the artillery; the youngest a major in a regiment of
dragoons. Madame, those three boys loved their father as much as he
loved them. If you but knew how careless young fellows grow of home
ties when they are carried away by the current of their own lives, you
would realize from this one little thing how warmly they loved the
lonely old father, who only lived in and for them--never a week passed
without a letter from one of the boys. But then he on his side had
never been weakly indulgent, to lessen their respect for him; nor
unjustly severe, to thwart their affection; or apt to grudge
sacrifices, the thing that estranges children's hearts. He had been
more than a father; he had been a brother to them, and their friend.

"At last he went to Paris to bid them good-bye before they set out for
Belgium; he wished to see that they had good horses and all that they
needed. And so they went, and the father returned to his home again.
Then the war began. He had letters from Fleurus, and again from Ligny.
All went well. Then came the battle of Waterloo, and you know the
rest. France was plunged into mourning; every family waited in intense
anxiety for news. You may imagine, madame, how the old man waited for
tidings, in anxiety that knew no peace nor rest. He used to read the
gazettes; he went to the coach office every day. One evening he was