Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 75: what you’re looking at

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

PICKWICA AKKUAD, 47 reason to believe that my mother was a sutler or werandtere to the camp, and was killed by a random shot during the engagement. In the midst of that scene of horror, the whole extent of which my mind could not of course comprehend, a friendly voice addressed me—a succouring arm raised me from the ground—and a morsel of stale bread or cake was thrust into my hand. I looked up—and the tall form of a soldier met my timid gaze. He bade me follow him—lI obeyed mechanically—and he led me to a place of safety, at some little distance from the scene of warfare, where he left me while he rejoined the fight. In a short time he returned, and, in as soothing a tone of voice as he could assume, endeavoured to assuage my grief, declaring he would be a father tome. I may here mention that he was one of the Em- peror’s body-guard, and that his horse had been killed under him a few minutes before he had discovered me on the field of battle. That field was the scene of one of Napoleon’s most glorious victories; and that battle was Austerlitz ! Dumont—for such was the name of the benevolent cuirasster—tful- filled his promise, and acted a father’s—nay, more than a father’s part towards me. But asevere wound, which he had received in a despe- rate attack against the Austrian guards, obliged him to accept a retir- ing pension, and return to France. Hedid not forget his little charge; on the contrary—I was a source of infinite amusement and delight to my worthy benefactor during a wearisome journey. His care was divided between me and his uniform—that uniform, which had been in many a hard-fought field—that cutrass, which had turned the edge of many a weapon—that brazen helm, which had protected his brow ir many a desperate charge against the serried ranks of the enemy. At length we arrived in the neighbourhood of Paris; and when the lofty domes and spires of the sovereign city met my eyes—child, mfant as I was—I leapt with delight. A glow of patriotic ardour and pride—as he has since more than once informed me—passed over the features of the veteran cuirassier, when the hundred towers of that vast Babel broke upon his sight, beneath a heaven as calm and as pure as the blue skies of Italy. The excellent old man! he glanced towards the red riband of the cross of the legion of honour which adorned his breast, and anticipated in a flood of joyous tears the feli- city he was about to experience, when surrounded by his friends, and receiving the congratulations of his numerous acquaintance on his honours and his safe return. I shall pass over the particulars attending our entry into Paris, the circumstances of which did not make so vivid an impression upon m memory as the events immediately preceding. And now— as, indeed, I have done heretofore—I must frequently fill up those blanks, which would otherwise necessarily occur in the course of my early history, by the facts and incidents my kind guardian subsequently related lo me, With the produce of the booty Dumont had acquired in the Aus- trian campaign, and with the arrears of his pay, we managed to live happily for some time: but he, like an old veteran soldier who is far from indifferent to pleasure, was not very anxious as to the future. At lengtb—shortly after the return of the army to France, and of the a S = a 6)(0)(6) .S (c©O)