up by the soldiers, and getting through the doorways was more difficult
still. Some of them, hauled at in front and pushed from behind, shot
through like the cork of a champagne bottle. Others, who could not
squeeze through at all, were made over to the soldiers to be reduced to
the necessary size, the whole thing accompanied by a chorus of shouts
and objurgations of every kind. But to pass from the harem to graver
subjects. On October 18th, I was present at the military funeral of the
Comte Damremont. It was a moving sight. Some few hundred yards from the
spot where he had been killed, just at the foot of the breach, a
cenotaph had been built of sand-bags, on which the coffin, with his
General's cloak, and his sword and white feathered hat laid on it, had
been placed. The weather had gone into mourning too, for the occasion.
It was a very gloomy day. The whole Arab population was looking on,
squatting on the walls. On the top of the breach were planted the
colours of the 47th Regiment. Below it the Zouaves' drums rolled a
funeral march, while the officers did obeisance for the last time to the
remains of their former general. And what officers they were too! How
many future men of mark there were in that assemblage, which, not to
mention its chiefs, numbered Captains Niel, Canrobert, MacMahon, St.
Arnault, Le Boeuf, Ladmirault, Morris, Leflo, and many another in its
ranks!

The army left Constantine in two detachments. I returned with the
second, which escorted the general in command, who had fallen sick, and
an enormous convoy of fever patients and cripples of all sorts. It was a
dreary journey back, for the column was decimated by cholera, and the
road was strewed with corpses. Every minute soldiers were to be seen
dropping their muskets and writhing in the most awful convulsions. My
brother, who commanded the rear-guard, spent his whole time having the
poor wretches picked up and tied into mule litters. They were thence