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Updated: June 7, 2025
They perceived the cruel anxiety which M. Larrey and his companions suffered concerning the fate of so many unfortunate wounded, and immediately men, women, children, and even old men, hastily brought wheelbarrows. The wounded were lifted, and placed on these frail conveyances.
M. Larrey was charged by his Majesty to reprove him most severely, with a caution to guard more carefully the honor of the corps to which he belonged; and the remonstrances of this excellent man were made in so paternal a manner that they doubled in M. M 's eyes the value of the inestimable service M. Larrey had rendered him.
We bullied Keate, and scoffed at Larrey Miller, and Okes; we rode along loudly laughing, and talked to the grave Servian forest as though it were the “Brocas clump.”
At the battle of Aboukir, General Fugieres was operated on by M. Larrey under the enemies' fire for a dangerous wound on the shoulder; and thinking himself about to die, offered his sword to General Bonaparte, saying to him, "General, perhaps one day you may envy my fate."
The Emperor, seeing him thus weltering in his blood, had the litter placed on the ground, and, throwing himself on his knees, took the marshal in his arms, and said to him, weeping, "Lannes, do you know me?" "Yes, Sire; you are losing your best friend." "No! no! you will live. Can you not answer for his life, M. Larrey?"
We became acquainted also with M. Gay-Lussac, who lived in the Jardin des Plantes, and with Baron Larrey, who had been at the head of the medical department of the army in Egypt under the first Napoleon. At Paris I equipped myself in proper dresses, and we proceeded by Fontainebleau to Geneva, where we found Dr. Marcet, with whom my husband had already been acquainted in London.
The heroic Larrey although exhausted from fatigue had come to these hospitals to take care of the sick, but he became infected with the contagion himself and was taken sick. A great calamity was the want of shoes; we have seen that this was already felt in Moscow, before they set out on the endless march over ice and snow.
Gay-Lussac the chemist, Laplace the astronomer, Larrey the surgeon, de Suze the advocate, are here, and with them are Talma, Bellini, Rubini; de Balzac, Beaumarchais, Beranger; Moliere and Lafontaine, and scores of other men whose names and whose worthy labors are as familiar in the remote by-places of civilization as are the historic deeds of the kings and princes that sleep in the marble vaults of St.
Keate requires no interpreter; Okes was an Eton tutor, afterwards Provost of King's. Larrey or Laurie Miller was an old tailor in Keate's Lane who used to sit on his open shop-board, facing the street, a mark for the compliments of passing boys; as frolicsome youngsters in the days of Addison and Steele, as High School lads in the days of Walter Scott, were accustomed to "smoke the cobler."
Larrey was still strong and sturdy as I saw him, and few portraits remain printed in livelier colors on the tablet of my memory.
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