of marching troops, the noisy movements of artillery and the
excitement of a young soldier at the prospect of action. I was far
from suspecting that this war would become so terrible and would cost
me so dear.

My father's division, fiercely attacked by greatly superior
forces, defended for two days positions at Cadibone and Montenotte,
but eventually, seeing themselves on the point of being outflanked,
they had to retire to Voltri, and from there to Genoa, where they
shut themselves in, together with the two other divisions of the
right wing.

I had heard all the well-informed generals deploring the
circumstances which forced our separation from the centre and the
left, but I had at that time so little understanding of the
principles of warfare that I took no notice. I understood well
enough that we had been defeated, but as I personally had overcome,
before Montenotte, an officer of Burco's Hussars, and takingaking the
plume from his shako, had fastened it proudly to the head-band of my
bridle, it seemed to me that I was like a knight of the middle-ages
returning laden with the spoils of the infidel.

My childish vanity was soon crushed by a dreadful event. During
the retreat, and at a moment when my father was giving me an order to
take, he was hit by a bullet in the left leg, which had been wounded
once before, in the army of the Pyrenees. The injury was serious,
and my father would have fallen from his horse if he had not leaned
on me. I took him out of the battle area. His wound was dressed. I
shed tears as I saw his blood flow, but he tried to calm me, saying
that a soldier should have more courage. My father was carried to