The Child of Waterloo, or, The Horrors of the Battle-Field — page 153: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

150 THE CHILD OF WATERLOO, a speedy convalescence, he made up his mind not to appear anxious on the subject. but to seek out the English officer when he could doso personally, and ascertain if it were indeed the child of Colonel Rouselli of which he had charge. Contrary, however, to. all expectations, his wound assumed a troublesome, if not a dangerous character, after a time; a fever supervened, which disordered his faculties; and, when that subsided by the remedies pursued by the English surgeons, he had the mortification of finding that the British army had left Brussels, on their route to Paris, and that among the wounded officers who had suffi- ciently recovered to be sent home was this very officer, about whom the story of the child had been told. This was mortify- ing, but could not be helped, and the only resource of Adolphe’s friend now was to endeavor to discover the name and rank of the party who had accepted such a trust. In pursuing these inquiries he found how difficult a thing it was to get apparently the simplest evidence upon the simplest affair. There seemed to be a general understanding and agreement that such a circumstance had taken place, of a child being pees in the care of a British officer upon the field of battle; ut no two persons were agreed about his name or his rank, One person indeed, a camp-follower, asserted that it was not an officer at all, but a wild-looking Irish infantry man, who had taken charge of the child, and who was about the worst guard- ian it could possibly have had.” ‘‘But what name did the generality agree in giving to the English officer ?” ‘‘Martin, or Murton, or some such name; which, however, we could not find as belonging to tbe British army in 4ny rank whatever, except that of the very lowest, and those individ- uale, when applied to, disclaimed all knowledge of the transac- tion.” ‘¢ Alas, sir!” said Henry, ‘‘ what unavailing exertions have you made to discover the truth ?” " ‘‘ As many as possible; and my presence here in this count is a proof that, although sixteen or seventeen years have elapsed, I have not forgotten the affair. or given up a hope of one day clearing up the mysteries which surround it.” ‘‘ And was nothing,” said Henry, with great hesitation, ‘‘ ever heard of Marie Mendelson ?” ‘s Nothing nothing. “tah er fate seems to have been the most gloomy of a P : ‘““It was it was. My son, of course, found the death which he knew might be the result of his profession; but to poor Marie the case was widely different, and whatever fate may have been hers, she is most abundantly to be pitied.” : Henry turned pale and red by turns, and could not conceal the agitation into which he was thrown. ‘*My young friend,” said old Rouselli, ‘‘ you are unwell. [ fear I have tried your generous feelings too much by the recital] of my misfortunes. What has come over you?” ‘Tt ig nothing—a sudden rush of feeling. I shall be better comicbooks. com