The Eagle of the Empire: A Story of Waterloo
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Title: The Eagle of the Empire: A Story of Waterloo
Author: Cyrus Townsend Brady
Release date: February 4, 2007 [eBook #20515]
Most recently updated: January 1, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EAGLE OF THE EMPIRE: A STORY OF WATERLOO ***
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[Frontispiece: The Little Countess takes Arms for Her Defence.]
THE EAGLE OF THE EMPIRE
A STORY OF WATERLOO
By CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY
AUTHOR OF
"The Island of Regeneration," "The Island of the Stairs,"
"Britton of the Seventh," Etc.
With Frontispiece
By THE KINNEYS
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers
New York
Published by Arrangements with GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
Copyright, 1915,
By GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
DEDICATION
Dedications have gone out of vogue save with the old fashioned. The
ancient idea of an appeal to a patron has been eliminated from modern
literature. If a man now inscribes a book to any one it is that he may
associate with his work the names of friends he loves and delights to
honor. There is always a certain amount of assurance in any such
dedication, the assurance lying in the assumption that there is honor
to the recipient in the association with the book. Well, there is no
mistaking the purpose anyway.
One of my best friends, and that friendship has been proved in war and
peace, at home and abroad, is a Bank! The Bank is like Mercy in more
ways than one, but particularly in that it is twice blessed; it is
blessed in what it receives, I hope, and in what it gives, I know.
From the standpoint of the depositor sometimes it is better to receive
than to give. It has been so in my case and I have been able to
persuade the Bank to that way of thinking.
Therefore, in grateful acknowledgment of the very present help it has
been to me in time of need and in public recognition of many courtesies
from its officers and directors, and as some evidence of my deep
appreciation of its many kindnesses to me, I dedicate this book to
THE MOUNT VERNON TRUST COMPANY
of
MOUNT VERNON, NEW YORK
PREFACE
The Battle of Waterloo, which was fought just one hundred years ago and
with which the story in this book ends, is popularly regarded as one of
the decisive battles of the world, particularly with reference to the
career of the greatest of all Captains. Personally some study has led
me to believe that Bautzen was really the decisive battle of the
Napoleonic wars. If the Emperor had there won the overwhelming victory
to which his combinations and the fortunes of war entitled him he would
still have retained his Empire. Whether he would have been satisfied
or not is another question; and anyway as I am practically alone among
students and critics in my opinions about Bautzen they can be
dismissed. And that he lost that battle was his own fault anyway!
However Napoleon's genius cannot be denied any more than his failure.
In this book I have sought to show him at his best and also almost at
his worst. For sheer brilliance, military and mental, the campaigning
in France in 1814 could not be surpassed. He is there with his raw
recruits, his beardless boys, his old guard, his tactical and
strategical ability, his furious energy, his headlong celerity and his
marvelous power of inspiration; just as he was in Italy when he
revolutionized the art of war and electrified the world. Many of these
qualities are in evidence in the days before Waterloo, but during the
actual battle upon which his fate and the fate of the world turned, the
tired, broken, ill man is drowsily nodding before a farmhouse by the
road, while Ney, whose superb and headlong courage was not accompanied
by any corresponding military ability, wrecks the last grand army.
And there is no more dramatic an incident in all history, I believe,
than Napoleon's advance on the Fifth-of-the-line drawn up on the
Grenoble Road on the return from Elba.
Nor do the Roman Eagles themselves seem to have made such romantic
appeal or to have won such undying devotion as the Eagles of the Empire.
This story was written just before the outbreak of the present European
war and is published while it is in full course. Modern commanders
wield forces beside which even the great Army of the Nations that
invaded Russia is scarcely more than a detachment, and battles last for
days, weeks, even months--Waterloo was decided in an afternoon!--yet
war is the same. If there be any difference it simply grows more
horrible. The old principles, however, are unchanged, and over the
fields upon which Napoleon marched and fought, armies are marching and
fighting in practically the same way to-day. And great Captains are
still studying Frederick, Wellington and Bonaparte as they have ever
done.
The author modestly hopes that this book may not only entertain by the
love story, the tragic yet happily ended romance within its pages--for
there is romance here aside from the great Captain and his
exploits--but that in a small way it may serve to set forth not so much
the brilliance and splendor and glory of war as the horror of it.
We are frightfully fascinated by war, even the most peaceable and
peace-loving of us. May this story help to convey to the reader some
of the other side of it; the hunger, the cold, the weariness, the
suffering, the disaster, the despair of the soldier; as well as the
love and the joy and the final happiness of the beautiful Laure and the
brave Marteau to say nothing of redoubtable old Bal-Arrêt, the
Bullet-Stopper--whose fates were determined on the battlefield amid the
clash of arms.
CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY.
THE HEMLOCKS,
EDGECLIFF TERRACE, PARK-HILL-ON-HUDSON.
YONKERS, N. Y.
EPIPHANY-TIDE, 1915.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
VIVE L'EMPEREUR
BOOK I: THE EMPEROR AT BAY
Chapter
I. BEARERS OF EVIL TIDINGS
II. THE EMPEROR DREAMS
III. THE ARMY MARCHES AWAY
IV. MARTEAU AND BAL-ARRÊT RIDE
V. WHEN THE COSSACKS PASSED
VI. MARTEAU BARGAINS FOR THE WOMAN
VII. A RESCUE AND A SIEGE
VIII. A TRIAL OR ALLEGIANCE
IX. THE EMPEROR EATS AND RIDES
X. HOW MARTEAU WON THE CROSS
XI. AN EMPEROR AND A GENTLEMAN
XII. AN ALLIANCE DECLINED
XIII. THE THUNDERBOLT STROKE
XIV. THE HAMMER OF THE WAR GOD
BOOK II: THE EAGLE'S FLIGHT
XV. THE BRIDGE AT ARCIS
XVI. THE GATE IN THE WALL
XVII. A VETERAN OF THE ARMY OF ITALY
XVIII. ALMOST A GENTLEMAN
XIX. THE GREAT HONOR ROLL
XX. WHEN THE VIOLETS BLOOM AGAIN
XXI. LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
XXII. IN THE COUNTESS LAURE'S BED-CHAMBER
XXIII. THE MARQUIS GRANTS AN INTERVIEW
XXIV. ON THE WHOLE DEATH MAY BE BETTER THAN LIFE
XXV. NOT EVEN LOVE CAN FIND A WAY
XXVI. THEY MEET A LION IN THE WAY
XXVII. COMRADE! GENERAL! EMPEROR!
BOOK III: THE LAST TRY
XXVIII. AT THE STAMP OF THE EMPEROR'S FOOT
XXIX. WATERLOO--THE FINAL REVIEW
XXX. WATERLOO--THE CHARGE OF D'ERLON
XXXI. WATERLOO--THE LAST OF THE GUARD
XXXII. AT LAST THE EAGLE AND THE WOMAN
PROLOGUE
VIVE L'EMPEREUR
The weatherworn Château d'Aumenier stands in the midst of a noble park
of trees forming part of an extensive domain not far to the northwest
of the little town of Sézanne, in the once famous county of Champagne,
in France. The principal room of the castle is a great hall in the
oldest part of the venerable pile which dates back for eight hundred
years, or to the tenth century and the times of the famous Count Eudes
himself, for whom it was held by one of his greatest vassals.
The vast apartment is filled with rare and interesting mementos of its
distinguished owners, including spoils of war and trophies of the
chase, acquired in one way or another in the long course of their
history, and bespeaking the courage, the power, the ruthlessness, and,
sometimes, the unscrupulousness of the hard-hearted, heavy-handed line.
Every country in Europe and every age, apparently, has been levied upon
to adorn this great hall, with its long mullioned windows, its enormous
fireplace, its huge carved stone mantel, its dark oak paneled walls and
beamed ceiling. But, the most interesting, the most precious of all
the wonderful things therein has a place of honor to itself at the end
farthest from the main entrance.
Fixed against this wall is a broken staff, or pole, surmounted by a
small metallic figure. The staff is fastened to the wall by clamps of
tempered steel which are further secured by delicate locks of skillful
and intricate workmanship. The pole is topped by the gilded effigy of
an eagle.
In dimensions the eagle is eight inches high, from head to feet, and
nine and a half inches wide, from wing tip to wing tip. Heraldically,
"_Un Aigle Éployé_" it would be called. That is, an eagle in the act
of taking flight--in the vernacular, a "spread eagle." The eagle looks
to the left, with its wings half expanded. In its talons it grasps a
thunderbolt, as in the old Roman standard. Those who have ever
wandered into the Monastery of the Certosa, at Milan, have seen just
such an eagle on one of the tombs of the great Visconti family. For,
in truth, this emblem has been modeled after that one.
Below the thunderbolt is a tablet of brass, three inches square, on
which is a raised number. In this instance, the number is five. The
copper of which the eagle is molded was originally gilded, but in its
present battered condition much of the gilt has been worn off, or shot
off, and the original material is plainly discernible. If it could be
lifted its weight would be found to be about three and a half pounds.
Around the neck of the eagle hangs a wreath of pure gold. There is an
inscription on the back of it, which says that the wreath was presented
to the regiment by the loyal city of Paris after the wonderful Ulm
campaign.
One of the claws of the eagle has been shot away. The gold laurel
wreath has also been struck by a bullet, and some of its leaves are
gone. The tip of one wing is missing. The head of the eagle,
originally proudly and defiantly erect, has been bent backward so that,
instead of a level glance, it looks upward, and there is a deep dent in
it, as from a blow. And right in the breast gapes a great ragged
shot-hole, which pierces the heart of the proud emblem. The eagle has
seen service. It has been in action. It bears its honorable wounds.
No attempt has been made to repair it.
The staff on which the eagle stands has been broken at about half its
length, presumably by a bullet. The shattered, splintered end
indicates that the staff is made of oak. It had been painted blue
originally. The freshness of the paint has been marred. On one side,
a huge slice has been cut out of it as if by a mighty sword stroke.
The tough wood is gashed and scarred in various places, and there is a
long, dark blur just above the broken part, which looks as if it might
be a blood stain.
Below the eagle, and attached to the remainder of the staff for about
three-fourths of its length, is what remains of a battle flag. The
material of it was originally rich and heavy crimson silk, bordered
with gold fringe. It is faded, tattered, shot-torn, bullet-ridden,
wind-whipped; parts of it have disappeared. It has been carefully
mounted, and is stretched out so as to present its face to the
beholder. In dull, defaced letters of gold may be read
inscriptions--the imagination piecing out the missing parts. Here is a
line that runs as follows:
_Napoleon, Empereur des Français, au 5e Infanterie
de la Ligne._
And underneath, in smaller and brighter letters, as if a later addition:
_Grenadiers du Garde Imperiale._
There has been some sort of device in the middle, but most of it has
disappeared. From what remains, one guesses that it was a facsimile of
the eagle on the staff-head. There are little tarnished spots of gold
here and there. A close observation discloses that they are golden
bees. In the corners near the staff, the only ones that are left are
golden wreaths in the center of which may be seen the letter "N".
On the other side of the flag, hidden from the beholder, are a series
of names. They have been transcribed upon a silver plate, which is
affixed to the wall below the broken staff. They read as follows:
"Marengo; Ulm; Austerlitz; Jena; Berlin; Eylau; Friedland; Madrid;
Eckmuhl; Wagram; Vienna; Smolensk; Moskowa; Bautzen; Leipsic;
Montmirail; Arcis."
Beneath this list is a heavy dash and below all in larger letters,
which unlike the rest have been filled with black enamel, is the last
word,
"WATERLOO."
The eagle, the staff, and the flag are enclosed and protected from
careless handling by a heavy glass case, the panes set in steel and
silver, and the doors carefully locked to prevent its being stolen
away. But its security is not entrusted to these inanimate materials
alone. Every hour of the day and night there keeps watch over it an
old soldier. He is armed and equipped as if for battle, in the uniform
of the old Fifth Regiment of the Line, somehow temporarily incorporated
in the Imperial Guard as a supplementary regiment of the Grenadiers
thereof. The black gaiters, the white trousers, the blue and scarlet
coat, with its crossed belts and brilliant decorations, the lofty
bearskin head-dress, are all strangely in keeping with the relic and
its surroundings.
Sometimes the soldier--and there are five of them whose sole and only
business it is to watch over the flag--paces steadily up and down in
front of it, like a sentry on his post. Sometimes he stands before it
at parade rest. As to each individual's movements, he suits his fancy.
These are old soldiers, indeed, highly privileged, veterans of twenty
campaigns, fifty pitched battles, and smaller affairs without number.
Their weatherbeaten faces are lined and wrinkled, their mustaches are
as white as snow.
The guard is always relieved at the appointed intervals with military
formality and precision. One soldier, older, taller than the rest, is
in command of the other four. From his buttonhole dangles from a white
ribbon a little cross of white enamel. Though he shows no insignia of
rank higher than that of a Sergeant of the Guard, he has won the proud
distinction of the Legion of Honor.
At one stated hour in the day, a tall, handsome, distinguished,
middle-aged man, wearing for the occasion the uniform of a colonel in
the Imperial Guard, a blood-stained, tarnished, battered, battle-worn
uniform, be it observed, comes into the room. He is more often than
not attended by a lovely lady of beauty and grace, in spite of her
years, who leads with either hand a handsome youth and a beautiful
maiden. The four soldiers are always present in full uniform under the
command of their sergeant at this hour. As the officer enters they
form line, come to attention, and present arms, a salute he gravely and
punctiliously acknowledges. Attendants follow, bearing decanters and
glasses; wine for the officer and his family, something stronger for
the soldiers. The glasses are filled. With her own fair hands, the
lady hands them to the men. When all are ready the officer holds up
his glass. The men, stacking arms, do the same. The eyes of all
glance upward. Above the eagle and the flag upon a shelf upon the wall
stands a marble head, product of Canova's marvelous chisel. It is
Napoleon. White it gleams against the dark stone of the old hall. At
a nod the soldiers face about, and----
"_Vive l'Empereur_," says the officer quietly.
"_Vive l'Empereur_," in deep and solemn tones repeats the old sergeant.
"_Vive l'Empereur_," comes from the lips of the four soldiers, and even
the woman and the young people join in that ancient acclaim.
The great Emperor is dead long since. He sleeps beneath the willows in
the low valley in the lonely, far-off, wave-washed islet of St. Helena.
But to these men he will never die. It is their blood that is upon
that eagle staff. It was in their hands that it received those wounds.
While they carried it, flung to the breeze of battle, it was shot-torn
and storm-riven. It is a priceless treasure to them all. As they
followed it with the ardor and devotion of youth so they now guard it
and respect it with the steadier but not less intense consecration of
maturity and old age.
The eagle of a vanished empire, the emblem of a fame that is past. It
is as real to them as when into the hands of one of them it was given
by the Emperor himself on the Champ de Mars so long ago when he was
lord of the world. And so long as they live they will love it,
reverence it, guard it, salute it as in the past.
BOOK I
THE EMPEROR AT BAY
CHAPTER I
BEARERS OF EVIL TIDINGS
The Emperor walked nervously up and down the long, low-ceiled
apartment, the common room of the public inn at Nogent. Grouped around
a long table in the center of the room several secretaries were busy
with orders, reports and dispatches. At one end stood a group of
officers of high rank in rich uniforms whose brilliance was shrouded by
heavy cloaks falling from their shoulders and gathered about them, for
the air was raw and chill, despite a great fire burning in a huge open
fireplace. Their cloaks and hats were wet, their boots and trousers
splashed with mud, and in general they were travel-stained and weary.
They eyed the Emperor, passing and repassing, in gloomy silence mixed
with awe. In their bearing no less than in their faces was expressed a
certain unwonted fierce resentment, which flamed up and became more
evident when the Emperor turned his back in his short, restless march
to and fro, but which subsided as suddenly when he had them under
observation. By the door was stationed a young officer in the uniform
of the Fifth Regiment of the infantry of the line. He stood quietly at
attention, and was evidently there on duty.
From time to time officers, orderlies and couriers came into the room,
bearing dispatches. These were handed to the young officer and by him
passed over to the Emperor. Never since the days of Job had any man
perhaps been compelled to welcome such a succession of bearers of evil
tidings as Napoleon on that winter night.
The Emperor's face was pale always, but there was an ashy grayness
about his pallor in that hour that marked a difference. His face was
lined and seamed, not to say haggard. The mask of imperturbability he
usually wore was down. He looked old, tired, discouraged. His usual
iron self-control and calm had given place to an overwhelming
nervousness and incertitude. He waved his hands, he muttered to
himself, his mouth twitched awry from time to time as he walked.
"Well, messieurs," he began at last, in sharp, rather high-pitched
notes--even his voice sounded differently--as he lifted his eyes from
perusing the latest dispatch and faced the uneasy group by the
fireplace, "you are doubtless anxious to know the news." The Emperor
stepped over to the table as he spoke, and gathered up a handful of
dispatches and ran over them with his hands. "It is all set forth
here: The Germans and the English have shut up Carnot in Antwerp," he
continued rapidly, throwing one paper down. "The Bourbons have entered
Brussels,"--he threw another letter upon the table--"Belgium, you see,
is lost. Bernadotte has taken Denmark. Macdonald is falling back on
Épernay, his weak force growing weaker every hour. Yorck, who failed
us once before, is hard on his heels with twice, thrice, the number of
his men. Sacken is trying to head him off. The King of Naples seeks
to save the throne on which I established him by withdrawing from me
now--the poor fool! The way to Paris along the Marne is open, and
Blücher is marching on the capital with eighty thousand Russians,
Prussians and Bavarians. Schwarzenburg with many more is close at
hand."
Something like a hollow groan broke from the breasts of the auditors as
the fateful dispatches fell one by one from the Emperor's hand. The
secretaries stopped writing and stared. The young officer by the door
clenched his hands.
"Sire----," said one of the officers, the rich trappings of whose dress
indicated that he was a Marshal of France. He began boldly but ended
timidly. "Before it is too late----"
Napoleon swung around and fixed his piercing eyes upon him, as his
voice died away. The Emperor could easily finish the uncompleted
sentence.
"What, you, Mortier!" he exclaimed.
"I, too, Sire," said another marshal more boldly, apparently encouraged
by the fact that his brother officer had broken the ice.
"And you, Marmont," cried the Emperor, transfixing him in turn with a
reproachful glance.
Both marshals stepped back abashed.
"Besides," said the Emperor gloomily, "it is already too late. I have
reserved the best for the last," he said with grim irony. "The courier
who has just departed is from Caulaincourt." He lifted the last
dispatch, which he had torn open a moment or two since. He shook it in
the air, crushed it in his hand, laughed, and those who heard him laugh
shuddered.
"What does the Duke of Vicenza say, Sire?" chimed in another marshal.
"It is you, Berthier," said the Emperor. "You, at least, do not advise
surrender?"
"Not yet, Sire."
"But when?" asked Napoleon quickly. Without waiting for an answer to
his question, he continued: "The allies now graciously offer us--think
of it, gentlemen--the limits of 1791."
"Impossible!" cried a big red-headed marshal.
"They demand it, Prince of the Moskowa," answered the Emperor,
addressing Marshal Ney.
"But it's incredible, Sire."
"What!" burst out Napoleon passionately. "Shall we leave France less
than we found her, after all these victories, after all these
conquests, after all these submissions of kings and nations? Shall we
go back to the limits of the old monarchy? Never!"
"But, Sire----" began Marshal Maret.
"No more," said the Emperor, turning upon the Duc de Bassano. "Rather
death than that. While we have arms we can at least die."
He flashed an imperious look upon the assembly, but no one seemed to
respond to his appeal. The Emperor's glance slowly roved about the
room. The young captain met his look. Instantly and instinctively his
hand went up in salute, his lips framed the familiar phrase:
"_Vive l'Empereur_! Yes, Sire, we can still die for you," he added in
a low respectful voice, but with tremendous emphasis nevertheless.
He was a mere youth, apparently. Napoleon looked at him approvingly,
although some of the marshals, with clouded brows and indignant words
of protest at such an outburst from so young a man, would have reproved
him had not their great leader checked them with a gesture.
"Your name, sir," he said shortly to the young officer who had been
guilty of such an amazing breach of military decorum.
"Marteau, Sire. Jean Marteau, at the Emperor's service," answered the
young soldier nervously, realizing what impropriety he had committed.
"It remains," said the Emperor, looking back at the marshals and their
aides, "for a beardless boy to set an example of devotion in which
Princes and Dukes of the Empire, Marshals of France, heroes of fifty
pitched battles, fail."
"We will die for you, Sire, for France, die with arms in our hands, if
we had them, and on the field of battle," began impetuous Ney.
"If we don't starve first, Sire," said cautious Berthier gloomily.
"Starve!" exclaimed the Emperor.
"The army is without food," said Marmont bluntly.
"It is half naked and freezing," added Victor.
"Ammunition fails us," joined in Oudinot.
"We have no arms," added Mortier.
"Do you, then, advise that we abandon ourselves to the tender mercies
of the allies?" asked Napoleon bitterly.
"Messieurs, it is surely better to die hungry and naked and without
arms for the Emperor than to consent to his dishonor, which is the
dishonor of France," suddenly burst forth the young man at the door.
"How dare you," thundered the usually cool and collected Berthier
angrily, "a mere boy, monsieur, assume to speak in the presence of the
Emperor, to say nothing of these great captains?"
"May my life be forfeit, _Monsieur le Duc_," said the young soldier
more boldly, since Napoleon had condoned his first remark, "if I have
done wrong in assuring my Emperor that we would still die for him."
"Of what regiment are you?" said Napoleon, waving Berthier of the
frowning face into silence.
"I belong to the fifth of the line, Sire."
"He is in my corps, Sire," said Ney. "I have brigaded that veteran
regiment with the new recruits of the Young Guard."
"But I have seen service before," said the young captain.
"And I have seen you before," said Napoleon, fixing upon him a
penetrating glance.
"Yes, Sire, at the end of the bridge over the Elster at Leipsic. You
were watching the men streaming across when the bridge was blown up. I
was among the last to cross the bridge."
"Go on," said the Emperor, as the young man paused.
"Your majesty was pleased to say----"
"I recall it all now. I saw you plunge into the river and bring back
to shore an Eagle--that of your regiment. You fell at my feet. You
should have had the Legion of Honor for it. I promised it to you, did
I not?"
"Yes, Sire."
"Why did you not claim it?"
"I was wounded and left for dead; when I got back to France and my
regiment I could not add to your anxiety by----"
"Here," said the Emperor, "I still have power to reward faithful
servants and bold spirits." He took off his own cross, fastened it on
the heaving breast of the amazed young soldier. "Prince," continued
the Emperor, turning to Ney.
"Sire?"
"Spare me this young man. I need him on my staff."
"I can ill spare any officer from my weak corps of boys and old men,
much less a veteran," the marshal laughed. "One campaign makes us
veterans, it seems, nowadays, but you shall have him."
"Berthier," continued Napoleon, "make out the transfer. Give the young
man a step up. Let him be Major."
"Very well, Sire," said Berthier, turning to one of the secretaries and
giving him directions.
"Meanwhile, what's to be done?" continued Napoleon.
"Tell Caulaincourt to agree to anything," said Maret bluntly.
"I yet live," said Napoleon proudly. "Naked, starving, unarmed, though
we may be, I and my soldiers have not forgot our trade. Courage,
messieurs. All is not yet lost while your Emperor breathes. Here at
Nogent, at Montereau and farther back we still have seventy thousand
men. With seventy thousand men and Napoleon much may be accomplished.
Blücher, it is true, marches on Paris. He counts on the army of
Schwarzenberg to contain us. He marches leisurely, with wide intervals
between his divisions. What shall prevent us----"
"Your majesty," cried Marmont, his eyes flashing as he divined the
Emperor's plan.
He was the quickest witted and most brilliant of the marshals, but by
no means the hardest fighter, or the most loyal and devoted subordinate.
"I am worn out," said the Emperor, smiling more kindly upon them. "I
have scarcely been out of the saddle--I have scarcely had an hour of
sleep since the bloody day of La Rothière. I must have rest. Let none
disturb me for two hours. Hold the messenger from the Duke of Vicenza.
I will give an answer then."
The Emperor drooped, as he spoke, much of the animation went out of his
face and figure. He looked grayer than ever, heavier than ever, older
than ever.
"In two hours awaken me," he said.
He stepped toward the door that led to the room reserved for himself,
but before he reached it two officers were admitted. Napoleon stopped
and looked at them. They saluted him, walked over to Berthier, the
Chief of Staff.
"The soldiers are dying of hunger," said the first. "The Commissary
General has nothing to give them. He expected a convoy of provisions,
but Cossacks, who are reported at Fontainebleau, have captured the
train. What shall we do?"
Berthier threw up his hands, and turned to the other officer to hear
his report.
"Ten thousand men are without arms, or with arms unserviceable and
broken. The supply of powder is low. Where shall we get any more?"
The silence in the room was terrible.
"Sire," said Berthier in a low voice, turning to Napoleon, standing
staring, "you hear?" He stretched out his hand in appealing gesture.
The Emperor turned on his heel, without deigning to look or speak.
"Watch the door for two hours," he said to the young officer, crashing
to the door behind him. "Awaken me then."
"Gentlemen," said Berthier despairingly to the other officers, "we
shall never persuade him. You had better repair to your commands.
Some of you must have something to eat. Divide what you have with the
less fortunate divisions. Arm and equip the best men. There is a
small supply at Nogent, I am told. The others must wait."
"If we could only get at these pigs of Prussians, these dogs of
Russians," said Ney, "we could take food and guns and powder from them."
"Doubtless," said Berthier, not caring to argue that point.
He bowed to the officers, as they saluted, and went out of the door
muttering and arguing noisily and insubordinately, it must be admitted,
and then turned to the table where the secretaries sat. One of them
had laid his head down on his arms, stretched out on the table and was
fast asleep. The marshal awoke him and dismissed him with most of the
rest. From another Berthier took a paper. He examined it, signed it,
sealed it, and handed it to the young officer on guard at the door.
"Your commission, monsieur," he said. "Once I was young and full of
enthusiasm and hope and determination. It is well for France that some
of her children still retain those things."
"I thank the Prince de Wagram," said the young officer, bowing low,
"and I beg his pardon for having spoken."
"The Emperor has forgiven," said Berthier indifferently. "His
absolution covers us all. At least if I fall behind you in those other
qualities of youth I shall not fall behind you in devotion. Come,
Maret," continued the grand marshal.
The two worthies turned away and went out. The long room sank into
silence. A soldier came in after a while and replenished the fire,
saluted and passed out. The pen of the busy secretary, the only one
left of the group, ceased scratching on the paper. He, too, sank back
in his chair asleep. The short day faded into twilight and then into
darkness. From outside beyond the courtyard of the inn came confused
noises, indicating moving bodies of men, the rumble of artillery, the
clatter of cavalry, faint words of command. A light snow began to
fall. It was intensely raw and cold. The officer picked up his cloak,
wrapped it around him, and resumed his immobile guard.
CHAPTER II
THE EMPEROR DREAMS
Within a mean room, which had hastily been prepared for his use, upon a
camp bed, having cast himself down, fully clothed as he was, lay the
worn-out, dispirited, embittered Emperor. He sought sleep in vain.
Since Leipsic, with its horrible disaster a few months before, one
reverse of fortune had succeeded another. He who had entered every
country a conqueror at the head of his armies, whose myriads of
soldiers had overrun every land, eating it up with ruthless greed and
rapacity, and spreading destruction far and wide, was now at bay. He
who had dictated terms of peace in all the capitals of Europe at the
head of triumphant legions was now with a small, weak, ill-equipped,
unfed army, striving to protect his own capital. France was receiving
the pitiless treatment which she had accorded other lands. With what
measure she had meted out, it was being measured back to her again.
The cup of trembling, filled with bitterness, was being held to her
shrinking lips, and she must perforce drain it to the dregs. After all
Napoleon's far-flung campaigns, after all his overwhelming victories,
after the vast outpouring of blood and treasure, after all his glory
and all his fame, the end was at hand.
The prostrate Emperor stared out through the low window into the gray
sky with its drift of snow across the panes. He heard faintly the
tumult outside. Disaster, ruin, despair entered his heart. The young
conscripts were disheartened by defeat, the steady old veterans were
pitifully few in number, thousands of them were in foreign prisons,
many more thousands of them were dead. Disease was rife among the
youthful recruits, unused to such hard campaigning, as he had summoned
to the colors. Without food and without arms, they were beginning to
desert their Eagles. The spirit of the marshals and great officers
whom he had raised from the dust to affluence and power was waning.
They were worn out with much fighting. They wanted peace, almost at
any price. He remembered their eager questions when he had joined the
army a month ago.
"What reinforcements has your majesty brought?"
"None," he had been compelled to answer.
"What, then, shall we do?" queried one after the other.
"We must try fortune with what we have," he had declared undauntedly.
Well, they had tried fortune. Brienne, where he had been a boy at
school, had been the scene of a brilliantly successful action. They
had lost no glory at La Rothière afterward--although they gained
nothing else--where with thirty thousand men he had beaten back through
one long bloody day and night thrice that number, only to have to
retreat in the end for the salvation of those who had been left alive.
And, to him who had been wont to spend them so indifferently, men had
suddenly become precious, since he could get no more. Every dead or
wounded man was now unreplaceable, and each loss made his problem
harder to solve. Since those two first battles he had been forced
back, step by step, mile by mile, league by league, everywhere; and all
his lieutenants likewise. Now Schwarzenberg, with one hundred and
thirty thousand men, confronted him on the Seine and the Aube, and
Blücher, with eighty thousand men, was marching on Paris by way of the
Marne, with only Macdonald and his beaten and dispirited men, not ten
thousand in number, to hold the fiery old Prussian field marshal in
check.
"How had it all come to this, and why?" the man asked himself, and,
with all his greatness and clearness of vision, the reason did not
occur to him. For he had only himself to blame for his misfortunes.
He was not the man that he had been. For a moment his old spirit had
flashed out in the common room of the inn two hours before, but the
reaction left him heavy, weary, old, lonely. Physically, he felt
unequal to the strain. His human frame was almost worn out. Mere men
cannot long usurp the attributes of God. Intoxicated with success, he
had grasped at omnipotence, and for a time had seemed to enjoy it, only
to fail. The mills of the gods do grind slowly, but they do grind
immeasurably small in the end.
What a long, bloody way he had traversed since Toulon, since Arcola,
since the bridge at Lodi, since Marengo? Into what far-off lands it
had led him: Italy, Egypt, Syria, Spain, Austria, Prussia and the
great, white, cold empire of the North. And all the long way paved
with corpses--corpses he had regarded with indifference until to-day.
It was cold in the room, in spite of the fire in the stove. It
reminded him of that dreadful retreat. The Emperor covered his face
with his hand. No one was there. He could afford to give away. There
rose before him in the darkness the face of the wife of his youth, only
to be displaced by the nearer woman, the Austrian wife and the little
son whom he had so touchingly confided to the National Guard a month
ago when he left Paris for the last try with fortune for his empire and
his life. Would the allies at last and finally beat him; would Francis
Joseph, weak monarch whom he hated, take back his daughter, and with
her Napoleon's son, and bring him up in Austria to hate the name of
France and his father? The Emperor groaned aloud.
The darkness fell upon the world outside, upon the room within, upon
the soul of the great Captain approaching the nadir of his fortunes,
his spirit almost at the breaking point. To him at last came Berthier
and Maret. They had the right of entrance. The time for which he had
asked had passed. Young Marteau admitted them without question. They
entered the room slowly, not relishing their task, yet resolute to
discharge their errand. The greater room outside was alight from fire
and from lanterns. Enough illumination came through the door into the
bed-chamber for their purpose--more than enough for the Emperor. He
turned his head away, lest they should see what they should see. The
two marshals bowed and stood silent.
"Well?" said the Emperor at last, his voice unduly harsh, as if to
cover emotion with its roughness, and they noticed that he did not look
at them.
"Sire, the courier of the Duke of Vicenza waits for his answer," said
Maret.
There was another long pause.
"Will not your majesty give way for the good of the people?" urged
Berthier. "Give peace to France, sire. The army is hungry----"
"Am I God, messieurs, to feed thousands with a few loaves and fishes?"
cried the Emperor bitterly.
"No, Sire. Therefore, authorize the duke to sign the treaty, and----"
"What!" said Napoleon fiercely, sitting up on the bed and facing them.
"You would have me sign a treaty like that? Trample under foot my
coronation oath? Unheard-of disaster may have snatched from me the
promise to renounce my own conquests, but give up those before me,
never! Leave France smaller, weaker than I found her! God keep me
from such a disgrace. Reply to Caulaincourt, since you wish it, but
tell him I reject this treaty. We must have better terms. I prefer to
run the uttermost risks of war."
Berthier opened his mouth to speak again, but Napoleon silenced him
with word and gesture.
"No more," he said. "Go."
The two marshals bowed and left the room with downcast heads and
resentful hearts. As they disappeared Napoleon called after them.
"Send me that boy at the door. Lights," he cried, as the young
officer, not waiting for the order to be repeated, promptly entered the
inner room and saluted. "The maps on the table, bring them here, and
the table, too," commanded the Emperor.
Even as the lights which were placed on the table dispelled the dusk of
the room, so something had dispelled the gloom of the great man's soul.
For a moment he looked almost young again. The gray pallor left his
cheeks. Fire sparkled in his eyes.
"Not yet--not yet," he muttered, spreading the maps upon the table.
"We will have one more try with fortune. My star is low on the
horizon, but it has not set yet."
"Nor shall it set, Sire, while I and my comrades live," returned
Marteau.
"You are right," said the Emperor. "You stand to me for France. Your
spirit typifies the spirit of my soldiery, does it not?"
"Theirs is even greater than mine, Sire," was the prompt answer.
"That's well. Do you know the country hereabouts?"
"I was born at Aumenier."
"Let me see," said the Emperor, "the village lies beyond Sézanne?"
"Yes, Sire."
"In an opening in the great woods beyond the marshes of St. Gond,"
continued the other, studying the map, "there is a château there. Are
you by any chance of the ancient house of Aumenier?"
"My father was a warden on the estates of the last marquis."
"Good. Do you know that country?"
"I have hunted over every rod of it as a boy, Sire."
"I must have news," said the Emperor, "information, definite tidings.
I want to know where Blücher is; where his several army corps are. Can
I trust so young a head as yours with great matters?"
"Tortures could not wring from me anything you may confide, your
majesty," said the young man resolutely.
"I believe you," said the Emperor, looking at him keenly and reading
him like a book. "Look. Before daybreak Marmont marches to Sézanne.
The next day after I follow. I shall leave enough men behind the river
here to hold back Schwarzenberg, or at least to check him if he
advances. With the rest I shall fall on Blücher."
The young man's eyes sparkled. He had been bending over the map. He
drew himself up and saluted.
"It is the Emperor at his best," he said.
"You have studied the art of war, young sir?"
"I have read every one of your majesty's campaigns."
"And you see what I would do?"
"Not altogether, but----"
"Fall upon the flank of the unsuspecting Prussian, burst through his
line, break his center, turn to the right or left, beat him in detail,
drive him back, relieve Paris, and then----"
"And then, Sire?"
"Come back and do the same thing with Schwarzenberg!"
"Your majesty!" cried the young soldier, as the whole mighty plan was
made clear to him.
"Ha! It brightens your eyes and flushes your cheek, does it not? So
it will brighten the eyes and flush the cheeks of France. I will show
them. In six weeks I will drive them across the Rhine. In another
month they shall sue for peace and the Vistula shall be our boundary."
"What does your majesty desire of me?"
"That you go at once. Take with you whomsoever you will. Bring or
send me reports. You are educated?"
"I was a student at your majesty's Military College," answered the
young man.
"Did you finish there?"
"I finished in your majesty's army last year."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-two, Sire."
"You belong to the foot, but you can ride?"
"Anything."
"Marshal Berthier will give you horses. I shall be at Sézanne the day
after to-morrow night. You will have news for me then?"
"Or be dead, Sire."
"I have no use for dead men. Don't get yourself taken. Any fool can
die, or be made prisoner. It is a wise man who can live for me and
France."
"I shall live," said the young man simply. "Have you any further
command, Sire?"
"None."
The hand of Marteau was raised in salute.
"Stop," said the Emperor, as the soldier turned to the door.
"Sire?"
"Come back with news, and let us but escape from this tightening coil,
and you shall be a lieutenant colonel in my guard."
"I will do it for love of your majesty alone," cried the soldier,
turning away.
It was not nearly dawn before Berthier and Maret, who had been
pondering over the dispatch to Caulaincourt, who was fighting the
envoys of the allies at the Congress at Chatillon, ventured to intrude
upon the Emperor. Having come to his decision, as announced to the
young soldier, who had got his horses and his comrade and gone, the
Emperor, with that supreme command of himself which few men possessed,
had at last got a few hours of rest. He had dressed himself with the
assistance of his faithful valet, Constant, who had given him a bath
and shaved him, and he now confronted the two astonished marshals with
an air serene--even cheerful.
"Dispatches!" he said, as they approached him. "It is a question of a
very different matter. Tell Caulaincourt to prolong the negotiations,
but to concede nothing, to commit me to nothing. I am going to beat
Blücher. If I succeed, the state of affairs will entirely change, and
we shall see what we shall see. Tell Marmont to give orders for his
corps to march immediately after they get some breakfast. No, they may
not wait till morning. Fortune has given the Prussians into my hands.
Write to my brother in Paris; tell him that he may expect news from us
of the most important character in forty-eight hours. Let the
Parisians continue their misérérés and their forty-hour-long prayers
for the present. We'll soon give them something else to think of."
"But, Sire----" feebly interposed Berthier.
"Do as I tell you," said the Emperor, good-humoredly, "and leave the
rest to me." He was in a mood apparently that nothing could dash that
morning. "And you will be as much surprised as the Prussians, and I
believe that nobody can be more amazed than they will be."
CHAPTER III
THE ARMY MARCHES AWAY
Gallantly on his errand rode young Marteau. Napoleon's order to
Berthier, by him transmitted down the line, had secured four of the
best horses in the army for his messengers. For young Marteau went not
alone. With him rode a tall grenadier of the Imperial Guard, whose
original name had been lost, or forgot, in a sobriquet which fitted him
perfectly, and which he had richly earned in a long career as a
soldier. They called him "Bullet Stopper," "Balle-Arrêtante," the
curious compound ran in French, and the soldiers clipped it and
condensed it into "Bal-Arrêt!" He used to boast that he had been
wounded in every country in Europe and in Asia and Africa as well. He
had been hit more times than any soldier high or low in the army. He
had distinguished himself by valor, and, but for his humble extraction
and meager education, might have risen to a high command. As it was,
he was personally known to the Emperor, and was accounted as one of the
favorite soldiers of the army.
He, too, had been a dweller on the Aumenier estates. It was his tales
of adventure which had kindled the martial spirit in young Marteau,
whom he had known from his birth. A warm friendship subsisted between
the young officer and the old soldier, which no difference in rank or
station could ever impair. When the Emperor had given him leave to
take with him whomsoever he would, his thoughts had at once turned to
old Bullet Stopper. The latter had gladly accepted the invitation.
Behold him now, his huge body astride of an enormous horse--for,
although the grenadier was a foot-soldier, he could still ride after a
fashion--plodding along through the mud and the wet and the cold on the
mission which, if successful, would perhaps enable Napoleon to save the
army and France, to say nothing of his throne and his family.
Captain Marteau, or Major Marteau, to give him his new title, had said
nothing as to the nature of his mission, upon which they had been
dispatched, to the humble comrade, the faithful follower who
accompanied him. He had only told him that it was difficult,
dangerous, and of vital importance, and he had explained to him that
his familiarity with the country, as well as a warm-hearted admiration
and respect for his shrewdness and skill and courage, had caused his
selection. That was enough for the old soldier; dangers, difficulties,
were as the breath of life to the veteran. And he was always happy to
follow Marteau, in whose career he took an interest almost fatherly.
The weather was frightful. It had snowed and then thawed. The
temperature was now just above the freezing point. The rough wind was
raw, the fierce winter gale was laden with wet snow. The roads, like
all country cross-roads in France, or anywhere else, for that matter,
in that day, were a sea of mud. It was well that the pair had brought
two extra horses. By changing mounts from time to time they were
enabled to spare their beasts and make the greater speed. The Emperor
had impressed upon his young aide the necessity for getting the
information to him at the earliest possible moment. Haste was
everything. So they pressed on.
Without waiting for their report, and presuming on his general
knowledge of Blücher's character and shrewdly deducing the exact state
of affairs Napoleon was already acting as if he possessed absolute and
accurate information. The drums were beating the long roll as they
rode through the still dark streets of the little town of Nogent.
Horses were being harnessed to guns, baggage wagons were being loaded,
ammunition caissons were being got ready. The troops were assembling
out of houses and tents, and coming from around fires, where many of
them had passed an unsheltered night.
There was little of the joy, the gaiety, the _élan_ of the French
soldier, to be seen in the faces of the men thus summoned to the
Eagles. They came, indeed, they answered the call, but with black
looks and sullen faces and a manner almost despairing. They had fought
and fought and fought. They had been beaten back and back and back,
and when they had not been fighting they had been retreating. And
always they were hungry. And always they were cold.
The enormous armies of Schwarzenberg had been extended on either side.
They were constantly threatened with being outflanked. Most of them
were young soldiers, weary and dispirited, and many of them unarmed.
Every battle had reduced the stock of good muskets. Many of those
still in possession of the troops had been ruined by their unskillful
handling.
The supply of regimental officers was utterly inadequate to the demand.
The bravest and the best are usually the first to fall; the boldest and
most venturesome the most liable to capture. Perhaps, if the Emperor
had broken up his guard and distributed the veterans among the raw
troops, the effect might have been better, but in that case he would
have destroyed his main reliance in his army. No, it was better to
keep the guard together at all hazards. It had already been drawn
heavily upon for officers for other corps.
War was popularly supposed to be a thing of dashing adventure, of
victory, and plunder. It had been all that before. Experience had
thrust them all unprepared face to face with the naked reality of
defeat, disease, weary marches over awful roads in freezing cold, in
drifting snow, or in sodden mire. They had no guns, they had little
food, thank God, there was some clothing, such as it was, but even the
best uniforms were not calculated to stand such strains as had been
imposed upon these.
Only the old guard, staunch, stern, splendid, indomitable, a
magnificent body of men, held the army together--they and the cavalry.
Murat, peerless horseman, was playing the traitor to save his wretched
Neapolitan throne. But Grouchy, Nansouty, Sebastiani and others
remained. Conditions were bad in the cavalry, but they were not so bad
as they were in the infantry. And Druot of the artillery also kept it
together in the retreat. Guns, cannon, were more precious almost than
men.
Now early that morning, while it was yet dark, they were called up from
their broken sleep to undertake what to them was another purposeless
march. Even the Eagles drooped in the hands of their bearers. The
soldiers did not know, they could not see. The great high roads that
led to Paris were being abandoned; they were plunging into unfathomable
morasses; they were being led through dark, gloomy, dreadful woods to
the northward. Where? For what purpose? The dumb, wrathful,
insubordinate, despairful army indeed moved at the will of its master,
but largely because it realized that it could not stay where it was,
and largely because it was better to move on and die than to lie down
and die. They were at least warmer on the march!
The spirit of the guard and of the subordinate officers, say from the
colonels down, was good enough, but the generals and the marshals were
sick of fighting. They had had enough of it. They had gained all that
they could gain in their world-wide campaigns, in fame, money, titles,
estates. They had everything to lose and nothing to win. They wanted
rest, an opportunity to enjoy. Some of them were devoted to the
Emperor, in fact, all of them were, but their own comfort and
self-interest bulked larger and larger before them. They saw nothing
but defeat at the end of their endeavors, and they wanted to negotiate
peace with such honor as could be had while they were still a force to
be reckoned with.
Their unwillingness and mutinous spirit, however, had not yet reached
its highest development. That came later, and brought treachery in its
train. The awful will of the Emperor still overruled them.
Wrathfully, insubordinately, protestingly, they still marched when he
gave the word.
The Emperor had been working with that furious concentration which he
alone of all men seemed to be able to bring about, and which was one of
the secrets of his power. Orders borne by couriers had streamed in all
directions over the roads. Napoleon was about to undertake the most
daring and marvelous campaign of his whole history. The stimulus of
despair, the certainty of ruin unless the advance of the allies could
be stayed, had at last awakened his dormant energies, filled his veins
with the fire of youth and spring.
With that comprehensive eye which made him the master of battlefields
and nations he had forseen everything. Soldiers were coming from
Spain. He had given instructions to magnify their number and their
strength. He shrewdly surmised that their appearance on the left flank
would cause the cautious Schwarzenberg to pause, to withdraw his
flankers, to mass to meet them. There would be a halt in the advance.
The allies still feared the Emperor. Although much of his prestige was
gone, they never made little of Napoleon. He intended to leave some of
the best troops to confront Schwarzenberg between Nogent and Montereau,
under Victor and Oudinot, hard fighters both, with instructions not to
engage in any decisive battle, not to allow themselves to be trapped
into that, but to stand on the defensive, to hold the River Seine, to
retreat foot by foot, if pressed, to take advantage of every cover, to
hold the enemy in check, to contest every foot of the way, to assume a
strength which they did not have.
He promised that so soon as he had fallen upon Blücher he would send
the news and see that it got to Schwarzenberg and the allied monarchs
who were with him. Reverses which he hoped to inflict on the Prussian
Field Marshal would increase the Austrian hesitation. The Emperor
believed that the pressure by Oudinot and Victor would be effective.
They would draw in their columns and concentrate.
After he had finished with Blücher and his army, he intended to retrace
his steps and do the same thing with Schwarzenberg. Of course, if he
failed with Blücher it was all over. He was the last hope of
France--he and his army. If his magnificent dash at the Prussians and
Russians was not successful, nothing could delay the end. Napoleon was
staking all on the throw, taking the gambler's chance, taking it
recklessly, accepting the hazard, but neglecting no means to insure the
winning of the game.
The Emperor flung a screen of cavalry in front of Marmont, to patrol
every village, to control every farmhouse, to see that no news of his
advance came to the unsuspecting old Prussian. And then he himself
stayed back in Nogent to see his own orders carried out. He personally
inspected every division, as it marched to the front through the waning
night, the cheerless dawn, the gray dark day. It cut him to the heart
to see his soldiers go so silently and so sullenly. Here and there a
regiment did cry: "_Vive l'Empereur_"; here and there a voice sounded
it, but in the main the men marched dumbly, doggedly. It was only the
old guard that gave him the imperial salute in full voice in the old
way.
Nothing indicated to the Emperor more thoroughly the temper of the
soldiers than that open indifference. Why, even in Russia, ere their
stiffened lips froze into silence, they had breathed out the old
acclaim. The Emperor remembered that grenadier who, when told by the
surgeon that he feared to probe for a ball that had pierced his breast
because he did not know what he would find, "If you probe deep enough
to reach my heart," said the soldier with his dying breath, "you will
find the Emperor."
Grave-faced and frowning, shivering from time to time in the fierce,
raw cold, the Emperor watched the troops march by. Well, the day after
to-morrow, if there were any left, they would acclaim him loud enough.
The Emperor was cold and cynical. He had never allowed the life of men
to stand in the way of his desires, but even his iron nerve, his icy
indifference had been shaken. He gave no outward evidence of it, but
in his heart he realized more plainly than ever before that when these
were gone there were no more. And so, perhaps, his shudder was not
altogether due to the cold.
Whatever his emotions, he steeled his heart, he made his preparations
for the last try with fortune, the last card to be played, the last die
to be thrown. What would be the end of it? What would be the result
of that final desperate game? The Emperor was a master player--could
even his finesse and skill and talent and genius make up for the poor
hand that had been dealt him because the pack had been so drawn upon
that the good cards had been exhausted, used up, long since?
Did the Emperor realize that even he was not what he had been? Did he
comprehend that he was no longer the soldier, the man, of the past?
Did he realize that at last he had tried the patience of that fortune
he had worshiped, beyond the limit; and that whatever favor might be
vouchsafed him would only delay the end?
The boys might march and fight, the old guard might sustain its ancient
fame, the genius of the Emperor might flash out in full effulgence once
more--and it would make no difference. The stars on their courses
fought against Sisera. The doom sentence was written. Postponement he
might look forward to, but no final stay of judgment! A few thousand
more lives he might throw away, but these late sacrifices would avail
nothing. Oh, no; the Emperor's shudder was not altogether due to the
cold that winter morning.
CHAPTER IV
MARTEAU AND BAL-ARRÊT RIDE
Of this young Marteau and old Bullet Stopper, plodding along at the
best speed they could get from their horses, knew nothing. The old
grenadier was laconic by nature, and his habit of silence had become
intensified by his years of subordination and service. The young
officer was wrapped in his own thoughts. Knowing, as they did, every
foot of the way, the two were able to find short cuts, take advantage
of narrow paths over the hills and through the woods, which would have
offered no passage to the army, even if they had been aware of it.
They reached Sézanne hours before Marmont's advance, long before the
cavalry even.
Baiting their horses, and getting a welcome meal at the inn--the town
itself had as yet suffered nothing from the ravages of the Cossacks,
being too strong for raiding parties--and refusing to answer questions,
and paying no attention to wondering looks of the inhabitants, they
rode out again. Their way through the marshes of St. Gond was
dreadful. If only the weather would change, the ground would freeze,
how welcome would be the altered conditions. But the half snow, the
half rain, still beat down upon them. Their poor beasts were almost
exhausted. They broke the ice of the Grand Morin river to get water
for the horses and themselves, and, not daring to kindle a fire, for
they were approaching the country occupied by Blücher, they made a
scanty meal from their haversacks.
They had found the farmhouses and châteaux deserted, evidences of hasty
flight and plunder on every side. The Cossacks had swept through the
land beyond the town. The people who could had fled to Sézanne, or had
gone westward hurriedly, to escape the raiders. In the ruined villages
and farms they came across many dead bodies of old women, old men and
children, with here and there a younger woman whose awful fate filled
the old soldier and the young alike with grim and passionate rage.
"Yonder," said Marteau, gloomily pointing westward through the
darkness, "lies Aumenier and my father's house."
"And mine," added Bullet-Stopper.
There was no need to express the thought further, to dilate upon it.
It had been the Emperor's maxim that war should support war. His
armies had lived off the country. The enemy had taken a leaf out of
his own book. Even the stupid could not fight forever against Napoleon
without learning something. The allies ate up the land, ravaged it,
turned it into a desert--_lex talionis_!
Marteau's father still lived, with his younger sister. Old
Bullet-Stopper was alone in the world but for his friends. What had
happened in that little village yonder? What was going on in the great
château, so long closed, now finally abandoned by the proud royalist
family which had owned it and had owned Marteau and old Bullet-Stopper,
and all the rest of the villagers, for that matter, for eight hundred
years, or until the revolution had set them free?
Plunged in those gloomy thoughts the young officer involuntarily took a
step in the direction of that village.
"On the Emperor's service," said the grenadier sternly, catching his
young comrade by the arm. "Later," he continued, "we may go."
"You're right," said Marteau. "Let us move on."
Whether it was because the roads really were in a worse condition
because of that fact that they ran through marshy country, or whether
it was because the men were worn out and their horses more so, they
made the slowest progress of the day. They plodded on determinedly
through the night. The two weaker horses of the four finally gave way
under the strain. Husbanding the remaining two with the greatest care,
the two soldiers, passing through the deserted villages of St. Prix, on
the Little Morin, and Baye, finally reached the great highroad which
ran through Champaubert, Vauxchamps and Montmirail, toward Paris, and
which, owing to a northward bend of the river, crossed the country some
leagues to the southward of the Marne.
Day was breaking as they reached the edge of the forest bordering the
road, and from a rather high hill had a glimpse of a wide stretch of
country before them. Fortunately, while it was still raw and cold, the
sun came out and gave them a fair view of a great expanse of rolling
and open fields. A scene of great animation was disclosed to them.
The road was covered with squadrons of green-coated Russian cavalry,
evidently just called to the saddle, and moving eastward at a walk or
slow trot. They looked like the advance guard of some important
division. There was a low, rolling volume of heavy sound coming from
the far north, and in the rising sun they thought they could
distinguish in that direction smoke, as from a battlefield. The sound
itself was unmistakable to the veteran.
"Cannon!" he said. "Fighting there."
"Yes," answered Marteau. "The Emperor said that the Prussians and
Russians were pressing the Duke of Tarentum, Marshal Macdonald."
"But what have we here?" asked old Bal-Arrêt, shading his eyes and
peering at the array on the near road.
A division of Russians, coming from a defile to the right, had
debouched upon a broad plateau or level upon the edge of which the
little village of Champaubert straggled forlornly. The Cossack
horsemen and the Russian cavalry had cleaned out Champaubert. There
were no inhabitants left to welcome the Russian division, except dead
ones, who could offer no hospitality.
The division was weary and travel-stained, covered with mud, horses
dead beat; the cannon, huge, formless masses of clay, were dragged
slowly and painfully forward. It was evident that the commander of the
division had doubled his teams, but the heavy guns could scarcely be
moved, even by twice the number of horses attached. The poor brutes
had no rest, for, as fast as one gun arrived, both teams were unhitched
and sent over the road to bring up another. A halt was made on the
plateau. It was evident to the experienced eyes of the watchers that a
camp was about to be pitched. The two men stared in keen interest,
with eyes alight with hatred. What they had seen in the country they
had just passed intensified that hatred, and to the natural racial
antagonism, fostered by years of war, were now added bitter personal
resentments.
"That's one of old Marshal Forward's divisions," said the grenadier,
referring to Blücher by his already accepted name, "but what one?"
"Russians, by the look of them," answered Marteau.
"You say well. I have seen those green caps and green overcoats
before. Umph," answered Bullet-Stopper, making for him an
extraordinarily long speech, "it was colder then than it is now, but we
always beat them. At Friedland, at Eylau, at Borodino, aye, even at
the Beresina. It was the cold and hunger that beat us. What wouldn't
the guard give to be where we are now. Look at them. They are so sure
of themselves that they haven't thrown out a picket or sentries."
In fact, neither Blücher nor any of his commanders apprehended any
danger whatsoever. That Napoleon would dare to fall on them was
unthinkable. That there could be a single French soldier in their
vicinity save those under Macdonald, being hard pressed by Yorck, never
entered anybody's head.
"What Russians are they, do you think?" asked Marteau of his comrade.
"How should I know?" growled the other. "All Russians are alike to me,
and----"
Marteau, however, had heard discussions during the time he had been on
duty in Napoleon's headquarters.
"That will be Sacken's corps, unless I am very much mistaken," he said.
"And those up yonder toward Épernay, where the firing comes from?"
asked the grenadier.
Marteau shook his head.
"We must find out," was the answer.
"Yes, but how?"
"I don't know."
"There is only one way," continued Bal-Arrêt.
"And that is?"
"To go over there, and----"
"In these uniforms?" observed the young officer. "We should be shot as
soon as we should appear, and questioned afterward."
"Yes, if there was anything left to question," growled the grenadier.
"The Russians will do some scouting. Perhaps some of them will come
here. If so, we will knock them on the head and take their uniforms,
wait until nightfall, slip through the lines, find out what we can, and
go back and tell the Emperor. It is very simple."
"Quite so," laughed the young officer; "if we can catch two Russians,
if their uniforms will fit us, if we can get through, if we can find
out, if we can get back. Do you speak Russian, Bal-Arrêt?"
"Not a word."
"Prussian?"
"Enough to pass myself through I guess, and----"
"Hush," said the young man, as three Russians suddenly appeared out of
a little ravine on the edge of the wood.
They had come on a foraging expedition, and had been successful,
apparently, for, tied to a musket and carried between two of the men
was a dead pig. How it had escaped the Cossack raiders of the day
before was a mystery. They were apparently coming farther into the
forest for firewood with which to roast the animal. Perhaps, as the
pig was small, and, as they were doubtless hungry, they did not wish
their capture to be widely known. At any rate, they came cautiously up
a ravine and had not been noticed until their heads rose above it.
They saw the two Frenchmen just about as soon as they were seen. The
third man, whose arms were free, immediately presented his piece and
pulled the trigger. Fortunately it missed fire. If it had gone off it
might have attracted the attention of the Russian outposts,
investigations would have been instituted, and all chance of passing
the lines there would have been over.
At the same time he pulled the trigger he fell like a log. The
grenadier, who had thrust into his belt a heavy knife, picked up from
some murdered woodsman on the journey, had drawn it, seized it by the
blade, and, with a skill born of olden peasant days, had hurled it at
the Russian. The blade struck the man fairly in the face, and the
sharp weapon plunged into the man to the hilt. He threw up his hands,
his gun dropped, he crashed down into the ravine stone dead. The next
second the two Frenchmen had seized the two Russians. The latter were
taken at a disadvantage. They had retained their clutch on the
gun-sling carrying the pig, and, before they realized what was
toward--they were slow thinkers both--a pair of hands was clasped
around each throat. The Russians were big men, and they struggled
hard. A silent, terrible battle was waged under the trees, but, try as
they would, the Russians could not get release from the terrible grasp
of the Frenchmen. The breath left their bodies, their eyes protruded,
their faces turned black.
Marteau suddenly released his prisoner, who dropped heavily to the
ground. To bind him with his own breast and gun straps and belt was a
work of a few moments. When he had finished he tore a piece of cloth
from the coat of the soldier and thrust it into his mouth to gag him.
The grenadier had a harder time with his enemy, who was the bigger of
the two men, but he, too, mastered him, and presently both prisoners
lay helpless, bound and gagged. The two Frenchmen rose and stared at
each other, a merry twinkle in the eyes of old Bullet-Stopper, a very
puzzled expression in those of the young soldier.
"Well, here's our disguise," said the old soldier.
"Quite so," interposed the officer. "But what shall we do with these
two?"
"Nothing simpler. Knock them in the head after we have found out what
we can from them, and----"
But Marteau shook his head.
"I can't murder helpless prisoners," he said decisively.
"If you had seen what they did to us in Russia you wouldn't have any
hesitation on that score," growled the grenadier. "I had comrades whom
they stripped naked and turned loose in the snow. Some of them they
buried alive, some they gave to the wolves, some they burned to death.
I have no more feeling for them than I have for reptiles or devils."
"I can't do it," said the younger soldier stubbornly. "We must think
of some other way."
Old Bullet-Stopper stood frowning, trying to think of some argument by
which to overcome these foolish scruples, when an idea came to his
friend.
"About half a mile back we passed a deserted house. Let's take them
there and leave them. There will probably be ropes or straps. We can
bind them. They will be sheltered and perhaps somebody may come along
and release them."
"Yes, doubtless somebody will," said the grenadier gravely, thinking
that if somebody proved to be a peasant their release would be an
eternal one, and glad in the thought. "Very well, you are in command.
Give your order."
At Marteau's direction the straps around the feet of the men were
loosened, they were compelled to get up; they had been disarmed, of
course, and by signs they were made to march in the required direction.
Casting a backward glance over the encampment, to see whether the
absence of the three had been noticed, and, discerning no excitement of
any sort, Marteau followed the grenadier and the two prisoners. Half a
mile back in the woods stood the hut. It was a stoutly built
structure, of logs and stone. A little clearing lay around it. For a
wonder it had not been burned or broken down, although everything had
been cleaned out of it by raiders. The door swung idly on its hinges.
The two Russians were forced to enter the hut. They were bound with
ropes, of which there happened to be some hanging from a nail, the door
was closed, huge sticks from a surrounding fence were driven into the
ground against it, so that it could not be opened from the inside, and
the men were left to their own devices.
As neither Frenchman spoke Russian, and as the Russians understood
neither French nor Prussian, conversation was impossible. Everything
had to be done by signs.
"I wouldn't give much for their chance, shut up in that house in this
wood," said the grenadier, as the two walked away.
"Nor I," answered Marteau. "But at least we haven't killed them."
The two Frenchmen now presented a very different appearance. Before
they left the hut they had taken off their own great coats, the
bearskin shako of the grenadier, and the high, flat-topped,
bell-crowned cap of the line regiment of the officer. In place of
these they wore the flat Russian caps and the long Russian overcoats.
Bal-Arrêt might serve for a passable Russian, but no one could mistake
Marteau for anything but a Frenchman. Still, it had to be chanced.
The two retraced their steps and came to the ravine, where the dead
Russian lay. They had no interest in him, save the grenadier's desire
to get his knife back. It had served him well, it might be useful
again. But they had a great interest in the pig. Their exhausted
horses were now useless, and they had thought they would have to kill
one to get something to eat. But the pig, albeit he was a lean one,
was a treasure indeed. To advance upon the Russian line in broad
daylight would have been madness. Darkness was their only hope.
Reaching down into the ravine, the grenadier hoisted the body of the
poor pig to his comrade, and the two of them lugged it back far in the
woods where it was safe to kindle a fire. With flint and steel and
tinder, they soon had a blaze going in the sequestered hollow they had
chosen, and the smell of savory roast presently delighted their fancy.
They ate their fill for the first time in weeks be it remarked. If
they only had a bottle of the famous wine of the country to wash it
down they would have feasted like kings.
"So far," said the grenadier, when he could eat no more, "our
expedition has been successful. If those youngsters down at Nogent
could only smell this pig there would be no holding them."
"I think it would be well to cook as much of it as we can carry with
us. I don't know when we may get any more."
"That is well thought on," agreed the old soldier. "Always provide for
the next meal when you can."
"And, with what's left, as we can't be far from the hut, we'll give
those two poor Russians something to eat."
"You're too tender-hearted, my lad," said Bullet-Stopper, his face
clouded, "ever to be a great soldier, I am afraid."
On an expedition of this kind rank was forgotten, and the humble
subordinate again assumed the role of the advisor. Marteau laughed.
"Rather than let them starve I would knock them in the head," he said.
"That's what I wanted to do," growled the other savagely.
When it came to the issue, however, he really did respect the rank of
his young friend. Accordingly, pieces of the roast pig were taken to
the hut and placed in reach of the prisoners, who were found bound as
before and looking very miserable. Yet there was something suspicious
in their attitude. The old grenadier turned one of them over and
discovered that one had endeavored to free the other by gnawing at the
ropes. Not much progress had been made in the few hours that had
elapsed, but still it was evident that the rope would eventually be
bitten through and the men freed. He pointed this out to his officer.
"Better finish them now," he said.
But Marteau shook his head.
"It will take them all day and night to get free at that rate; by that
time we will be far away, and it will be too late."
"But if they should tell what they have seen?"
"What can they tell? Only that two Frenchmen fell upon them. No, let
them be. Set the food on the floor here. If they get hungry they can
roll over toward it and eat it."
The gags had been taken out of the mouths of the men. If they did give
the alarm there would be none to hear them, save perhaps a French
peasant passing that way, and at his hands they would meet short shrift.
Having stuffed their haversacks full of roast pig, they retraced their
steps and reached the edge of the clearing. It was noon by this time,
so much of the day had been spent in the various undertakings that have
been described, but the Russians were still there. Evidently they
intended to encamp for the day and rest. Probably it was part of the
program. These would move on, presumably on the morrow, and another
division of the army would come up and take their places. The firing
still continued on the horizon.
Marteau, who had a soldierly instinct, divined that the cavalry, which
had long since disappeared to the westward, would try to outflank
Macdonald, perhaps get in his rear, and this Russian division would
move up and join Yorck's attacking force. The whole proceeding was
leisurely. There was no especial hurry. There was no use tiring out
the men and fighting desperate battles when maneuvering would serve.
The two made a more careful investigation and discovered that trees led
across the road about half a mile to the left, and, although the roads
were filled with galloping couriers and many straggling men and small
commands, yet they decided that by going to the edge of the wood that
touched the road and watching their opportunity they could get across
unnoticed.
While they stared deliberating a squadron of cavalry, not of Cossacks,
but of Russian cuirassiers left the camp and moved off down the
cross-road that led to the south and west--the road, indeed, that led
to the Château d'Aumenier. The officer in command rode in front and
with him were several civilians, at least, while they were covered with
heavy fur cloaks, no uniform was visible, and among the civilians was
one unmistakably a woman. A Frenchman always had an eye for a woman.
The party was too far away to distinguish features, but the two men
noted the air of distinction about the party and the way the woman rode
her horse, the deference that appeared to be paid to her, and they
wasted no little time in wondering what might be toward. However, no
explanation presenting itself to their minds, and, the matter being of
no great importance after all, they turned their attention to the
business in hand.
Working their way through the trees they reached a little coppice close
to the road. They lay down on the ground back of the coppice, wormed
their way into it, and waited.
"Here we part," said Marteau. "There are but two of us. We must get
all the information we can. I will find out what division this is in
front of us, and I will go back along the road to the eastward and
ascertain where the other divisions are, and by nightfall I will return
to Sézanne to report to the Emperor."
"And what am I to do?" asked the grenadier. "Remain here?"
"You will cross the road and proceed in the direction of the firing.
Find out, if you can, how the battle goes, what troops are there, what
Marshal Macdonald is doing, and at nightfall retrace your steps and
hasten back to Sézanne."
"Where shall I meet you?"
"Let me think," answered Marteau. "I shall first go east and then
west, if I can get around that division ahead yonder. Let us take the
road to d'Aumenier. I will meet you at the old château at ten o'clock,
or not later than midnight. There is a by-road over the marsh and
through the forest by the bank of the river to Sézanne."
"I know it."
"Very well, then. It is understood?"
Old Bullet-Stopper nodded.
"The road is clear," he said. "Good luck."
The two men rose to their feet, shook hands.
"We had better go separately," said Marteau. "You have the longer
distance. You first. I will follow."
The officer watched the old grenadier anxiously. He passed the road
safely, ran across the intervening space, and disappeared in a little
clump of fruit trees surrounding a deserted farmhouse. The young man
waited, listening intently for the sound of a shot or struggle, but he
heard nothing. Then he turned, stepped out into the road, saw it was
empty for the moment, set his face eastward, and moved across it to see
what he could find out beyond.
CHAPTER V
WHEN THE COSSACKS PASSED
For the first time in years the great hall of the Château d'Aumenier
was brightly lighted. The ancient house stood in the midst of a wooded
park adjacent to the village, overlooking one of the little lakes whose
outlets flowed into the Morin. In former days it had been the scene of
much hospitality, and, even after the revolution in the period of the
consulate and the early empire, representatives of the ancient house
had resided there, albeit quietly and in greatly diminished style. The
old Marquis Henri, as uncompromising a royalist soldier as ever lived,
had fled to England and had remained there. His younger brother,
Robert, compromising his dignity and his principles alike, had finally
made his submission to Napoleon and received back the estates, or what
had not been sequestrated. But he had lived there quietly, had sought
no preferment of the government--even rejecting many offers--and had
confined his recognition to as narrow limits as possible. He had
married and there had been born to him a daughter, whom he had named
after the ancient dames of his honorable house, Laure.
The Count d'Aumenier, living thus retired, had fallen into rather
careless habits after the death of his wife, and the little demoiselle
had been brought up indifferently indeed. Dark, brown-eyed,
black-haired, she had given promise of beauty to come. Left to her own
devices she had acquired accomplishments most unusual in that day and
by no means feminine. She could ride, shoot, swim, run, fence, much
better than she could dance the old courtly minuet, or the new and
popular waltz, just beginning to make its appearance. A love of
reading and an ancient library in which she had a free range had
initiated her into many things which the well-brought-up French girl
was not supposed to know, and which, indeed, many of them went to their
graves without ever finding out. The Count had a well-stored mind, and
on occasion he gave the child the benefit of it, while leaving her
mainly to her own devices.
Few of the ancient nobility had come back to the neighborhood. Their
original holdings had been portioned out among the new creations of the
Imperial Wizard, and with them the Count held little intercourse.
Laure d'Aumenier had not reached the marriageable age, else some of the
newly made gentry would undoubtedly have paid court to her. She found
companions among the retainers of her father's estate. The devotion of
some of them had survived the passionate hatreds of the revolution and,
failing the Marquis, who was the head of the house, they loyally served
his brother, and with pride and admiration gave something like feudal
worship and devotion to the little lady.
The Marquis, an old man now, had never forgiven his brother, the Count,
for his compromise with principle and for his recognition of the
"usurper," as he was pleased to characterize Napoleon. He had refused
even to accept that portion of the greatly diminished revenue of the
estate which the younger brother had regularly remitted to the Marquis'
bankers in London. The whole amount lay there untouched and
accumulating, although, as were many other emigrés, the Marquis
frequently was hard pressed for the bare necessities of life. With
every year, as Bonaparte--for that was the only name by which he
thought of him--seemed to be more and more thoroughly established on
the throne, the resentment of the Marquis had grown. Latterly he had
refused to hold any communication with his brother.
The year before the Battle of the Nations, or just before Napoleon set
forth on his ill-fated Russian adventure, Count Robert d'Aumenier died.
With an idea of amendment, which showed how his conscience had smitten
him for his compromise, he left everything he possessed to his brother,
the Marquis, including his daughter, Laure, who had just reached her
sixteenth year. With the will was a letter, begging the Marquis to
take the young demoiselle under his charge, to complete that ill-begun
and worse-conducted education, the deficiencies of which the father too
late realized, in a manner befitting her station, and to provide for
her marriage with a proper portion, as if she had been his own
daughter. The Marquis had never married himself, lacking the means to
support his rank, and it was probable that he never would marry.
The Marquis was at first minded to refuse the bequest and to disregard
the appeal, but an old retainer of the family, none other than Jean
Marteau, the elder, complying with Count Robert's dying wish, had taken
the young Countess Laure across the channel, and had quietly left her
in her uncle's care, he himself coming back to act as steward or agent
for the remaining acres of the shrunken Aumenier domain; for the
Marquis, having chosen a course and walked in it for so many years, was
not minded even for the sake of being once more the lord of Aumenier to
go back to France, since the return involved the recognition of the
powers that were.
Old Jean Marteau lived in his modest house between the village and the
château. And the château had been closed for the intervening time.
Young Jean Marteau, plodding along the familiar way, after a day full
of striking adventure and fraught with important news, instantly
noticed the light coming through the half moons in the shutters over
the windows of the château, as he came around a brow of the hill and
overlooked the village, the lake and the castle in the clearing. The
village was as dark as the château was light.
Marteau was ineffably weary. He had been without sleep for thirty-six
hours, he had ridden twenty leagues and walked--Heaven only knew how
many miles in addition. He had extricated himself from desperate
situations only by his courage, daring, and, in one or two cases, by
downright fighting, rendered necessary by his determination to acquire
accurate information for the Emperor. He had profited, not only by his
instruction in the military school, but by his campaigning, and he now
carried in his mind a disposition of the Russian forces which would be
of the utmost value to the Emperor.
The need of some rest, however, was absolute. Marmont's troops,
starting out at the same time he had taken his departure, would barely
have reached Sézanne by this time, so much more slowly did an army move
than a single person. The Emperor, who had intimated that he would
remain at Nogent until the next day, would scarcely undertake the march
before morning. Aumenier lay off to the northwest of Sézanne, distant
a few miles. If the young aide could find something to eat and get a
few hours' sleep, he could be at Sézanne before the Emperor arrived and
his information would be ready in the very nick of time. With that
thought, after staring hard at the château in some little wonderment,
he turned aside from the road that led to its entrance and made for the
village.
His mother had died the year before; his father and his sister, with
one or two attendants, lived alone. There was no noble blood in
Marteau's veins, as noble blood is counted, but his family had been
followers and dependents of the Aumeniers for as many generations as
that family had been domiciled in France. Young Jean Marteau had not
only been Laure d'Aumenier's playmate, but he had been her devoted
slave as well. To what extent that devotion had possessed him he had
not known until returning from the military school he had found her
gone.
The intercourse between the young people had been of the frankest and
pleasantest character, but, in spite of the sturdy respectability of
the family and the new principles of equality born of the revolution,
young Marteau realized--and if he had failed to do so his father had
enlightened him--that there was no more chance of his becoming a
suitor, a welcome suitor, that is, for the hand of Laure d'Aumenier
than there was of his becoming a Marshal of France.
Indeed, as in the case of many another soldier, that last was not an
impossibility. Men infinitely more humble than he in origin and with
less natural ability and greatly inferior education had attained that
high degree. If Napoleon lived long enough and the wars continued and
he had the opportunity, he, too, might achieve that coveted
distinction. But not even that would make him acceptable to Count
Robert, no matter what his career had been; and even if Count Robert
could have been persuaded the old Marquis Henri would be doubly
impossible.
So, on the whole, Jean Marteau had been glad that Laure d'Aumenier had
gone out of his life. He resolved to put her out of his heart in the
same way, and he plunged with splendid energy into the German campaign
of 1813, with its singular alternations of success and failure, of
victory and defeat, of glory and shame. He had been lucky enough to
win his captain's commission, and now, as a major, with a position on
the staff of the Emperor, he could look forward to rapid advancement so
long as the Emperor lasted. With the bright optimism of youth, even
though affairs were now so utterly hopeless that the wise old marshals
despaired, Marteau felt that his foot was on the first rung of the
ladder of fame and prosperity, and, in spite of himself, as he had
approached his native village, he had begun to dream again, almost to
hope.
There was something ominous, however, in the appearance of the village
in that dark gray evening hour. There were no barking dogs, no
clucking hens, no lowing cattle, no sounds of childish laughter, no
sturdy-voiced men or softer-spoken women exchanging greetings. The
stables and sheds were strangely silent.
The village was a small one. He turned into it, entered the first
house, stumbled over a corpse! The silence was of death. With a
beating heart and with a strength he did not know he possessed, he
turned aside and ran straight to his father's house.
Standing by itself it was a larger, better and more inviting house than
the others. The gate of the surrounding stone wall was battered off
the hinges, the front door of the house was open, the garden was
trampled. The house had been half destroyed. A dead dog lay in front
of the door. He could see all that in the half light. He ran down the
path and burst into the wrecked and plundered living room. A few
feeble embers still glowed in the broad hearth. From them he lighted a
candle standing on the mantel shelf.
The first sight that greeted him was the body of his sister, her torn
clothing in frightful disarray, a look of agony and horror upon her
white set face under its dishevelled hair. She was stone dead. He
knelt down and touched her. She was stone cold, too. He stared at
her, a groan bursting from his lips. The groan brought forth another
sound. Was it an echo? Lifting the candle, he looked about him. In a
far corner lay a huddled human body. He ran to it and bent over it.
It was his father. Knowing the house like a book, he ran and fetched
some water. There were a few mouthfuls of spirits left in a flask of
vodka he had found in the Russian's overcoat. He bathed his father's
face, forced a few drops of the strong spirit down his throat, and the
old man opened his eyes. In the flickering light he caught sight of
the green cap and coat.
"Curse you," he whispered.
"My father!" cried the young officer. "It is I."
"My son!"
"What has happened?"
"The Cossacks--I fought for the honor of your sister. Where----" the
old man's voice faltered.
"She is dead yonder," answered the son.
"Thank God," came the faint whisper from the father. "Mademoiselle
Laure--she--the wagon-train--the castle----"
His voice died away, his eyes closed. Frantically the young man
recalled his father to his senses again.
"It's no use," whispered the old man, "a ball in the breast. I am
going. What do you here?"
"On the service of the Emperor," answered the young officer. "Father,
speak to me!"
"Alas--poor--France," came the words slowly, one by one, and
then--silence.
Marteau had seen death too many times not to know it now. He laid the
old man's head gently down, he straightened his limbs, he went over to
the form of the poor girl. To what horrors she had been
subjected--like every other woman in the village--before she died!
Like his father, he thanked God that she was dead. He lifted her up
tenderly and laid her down on a huge settle by the fireplace. He stood
a moment, looking from one to the other. The irreligion of the age had
not seized him. He knelt down and made a prayer. Having discharged
that duty, he lifted his hands to heaven and his lips moved. Was he
invoking a curse upon these enemies? He turned quickly and went out
into the night, drawing the door behind him, fastening it as tight as
he could.
He forgot that he was hungry, that he was thirsty, that he was tired,
that he was cold. For the moment he almost forgot his duty toward his
Emperor and France, as he walked rapidly through the trees toward the
great house. But as he walked that stern obligation came back to him.
His sister was dead, his father murdered. Well, the first Cossack he
came upon should pay. Meanwhile there was his duty. What had his
father said?
"The Cossacks--the wagon-train--the Countess Laure."
What did it mean? Part of it was plain enough. The Cossacks had
raided the village, his father had been stricken down defending his
daughter, his sister had died. That was easy, but the wagon-train, the
castle, the Countess Laure? Could she have come back? Was that the
occasion for the lights in the château? That body of cavalry that he
had seen leaving Sacken's men that morning with the civilians--was she
that woman? The mystery would be solved at the château. And it was
there he had arranged to meet his comrade, anyway.
He stopped and looked back at the devastated village. Already a light
was blazing in one of the houses. It would soon be afire. He could do
nothing then. The château called him. He broke into a run again,
heavy-footed and tired out though he was. Around the château in the
courtyard were dozens of wagons. His experienced glance told him that
they were army wagons, containing provisions, arms, ammunition. Some
of the covers had been raised to expose the contents. There was not a
living man present, and scarcely a living horse. There had been some
sort of a battle evidently, for the wagons were in all sorts of
confusion and there were dead men and horses everywhere. He did not
stop to examine them save to make sure that the dead men were French,
proving that the convoy had come from Paris. He threaded his way among
the wagons and finally reached the steps that led to the broad terrace
upon which rose the château.
The main door was open. There were no soldiers about, which struck him
as peculiar, almost terrifying. He went up the steps and across the
terrace, and stopped before the building, almost stumbling over the
bodies of two men whose uniforms were plainly Russian! He inspected
them briefly and stepped toward the door of the entrance hall. It was
open but dimly lighted, and the light wavered fitfully. The faint
illumination came into the hall from a big broad open door upon the
right, giving entrance to what had been the great room. Still keeping
within the shadow, he moved carefully and noiselessly into the hall,
until he could get a view of the room beyond.
A huge fire was burning in the enormous fireplace. The many tables
with which the room had been furnished had been pushed together in the
center, several tall candles pulled from the candelabra and fastened
there by their own melted wax stood upon these tables and added their
illumination to the fire-light. Several men in uniforms, two of them
rough-coated Cossacks, and two whose dress showed clearly that they
belonged to the Russian Imperial Guard, lay on the floor, bound and
helpless. A stout, elderly man, in civilian garb, with a very red face
and an angry look, his wig awry, was lashed to a chair. Between two
ruffianly looking men, who held her firmly, stood a woman.
There were perhaps two dozen other men in the room, unkempt, savage,
brutal, armed with all sorts of nondescript weapons from ancient
pistols to fowling pieces, clubs and scythes. They were all in a state
of great excitement, shouting and gesturing madly.
The woman standing between the two soldiers was in the full light. So
soon as he caught sight of her Marteau recognized her. It was Laure
d'Aumenier. She had grown taller and more beautiful than when he had
seen her last as a young girl. She had been handled roughly, her
clothes were torn, her hair partially unbound. Her captors held her
with an iron grasp upon her arms, but she did not flinch or murmur.
She held herself as erect and looked as imperious as if she had been on
a throne.
CHAPTER VI
MARTEAU BARGAINS FOR THE WOMAN
The sight of her predicament filled the young Frenchman with rage and
horror. Drawing his pistol, he strode into the room. What he intended
to do, or how he intended to do it was not clear even to him. There
stood the woman he loved in the clutch of wretches whose very touch was
pollution. He must help her. All duties and intentions gave way to
that determination.
A dead silence fell over the room as he entered and the people caught
sight of him. He stood staring at the occupants and they returned his
stare in good measure. Finally the biggest ruffian, who seemed to be
the leader, found his voice and burst out with a savage oath:
"Another Russian! Well, the more the merrier."
He raised a huge horse pistol as he spoke. His words were greeted with
jeers and yells from the band. With a flash of inspiration Marteau,
realizing into what he had been led, dropped his own weapon and
instantly threw up his hands.
"I am French, messieurs," he cried loudly as the pistol clattered on
the floor at his feet.
"What are you doing in that uniform, then?" roared the leader.
Marteau tore open the heavy green coat, disclosing beneath it his
French uniform. He had a second to make up his mind how to answer that
pertinent question. He was quite in the dark as to the meaning of the
mysterious situation. He opened his mouth and spoke.
"It is quite simple," he began, "I am----"
What should he say? What was he? Were these men for the Emperor or
for the king, or were they common blackguards for themselves? The
latter was probably the true state of the case, but did it please them
to pose as royalists? He took a long chance after a quick prayer
because he wanted to live not so much for himself as for the woman.
"I am deserting the Emperor," he said. "I am for the king."
"No king could have brought us to worse straits than we are now in,"
said the leader, lowering his pistol uncertainly, but still keeping the
young man covered.
"Right, my friend," continued Marteau exultantly, realizing that he had
made the right choice. "Bonaparte is beaten, Blücher is marching on
Paris, Schwarzenberg has the Emperor surrounded. I thought I might as
well save myself while I had the chance, so I stole this Russian coat
to keep myself from freezing to death, and here I am. I belong to
Aumenier."
"You'll join us, then?"
"With pleasure. Who do you serve?"
"Ourselves," laughed the leader grimly. "We're from Fére-Champenoise
way. We're all of the village and countryside that the Cossacks and
the Prussians have left of our families. We're hungry, starving,
naked. Do you hear? We were hiding in the woods hard by to-day.
There was a wagon-train. A regiment of Cossacks surprised it, killed
its defenders, brought it here. We saw it all."
"And where are the Cossacks gone?" asked the young man, coolly picking
up his pistol from the floor and nonchalantly sitting upon the nearest
table in a careless way which certainly belied the beating of his
heart. He took careful notice of the men. They were ignorant fellows
of the baser sort, half-mad, starving, ferocious peasants, little
better than brute beasts, made so by the war.
"An order came for them. They marched away, leaving a company of other
soldiers like those yonder." He pointed to the men on the floor.
"And what became of them?"
"There was an attack from the woods at night--a little handful of
French soldiers. They beat them off and followed them down the road.
They have been gone half an hour. We heard the firing. We came out
thinking to plunder the train. We opened wagon after wagon but found
nothing but arms. We can't eat steel or powder. We killed two
sentries, made prisoners of the officers. We'll set fire to the house
and leave them presently. As for this man, we'll kill him, and as for
this woman----"
He laughed meaningly, basely, leering at the girl in hideous
suggestiveness that made her shudder; and which his wretched companions
found highly amusing.
"You have done well," said the young officer quickly, although he was
cold with rage at the ruffian's low insinuation. "I hope to have some
interest with the king later. If you will give me your names I will
see that you are rewarded."
"Never mind our names," growled the leader, still suspicious, evidently.
"Food and drink would reward us better now," shouted a second.
"Aye," yelled one of the others, seconding this happy thought. "We
have eaten nothing since yesterday, and as for drink, it is a week
since my lips have tasted a swallow of wine."
"And what would you give me if I could procure you some of the fine
wine of the country, my friends?" said Marteau quietly, putting great
restraint upon himself to continue trafficking with these scoundrels.
"Give? Anything," answered several in chorus, their red eyes gleaming.
"If you've got it we'll take it for nothing," said the brutal leader
with ferocious cunning.
"Do I look as if I concealed wine and provisions on my person?" asked
the officer boldly, confident now that he had found the way to master
these men.
"No," was the answer. "But where is it?"
"And be quick about it," cried a second threateningly. "Those Russians
may be back at any moment."
"Is this a jest?" asked a third with a menacing gesture.
"It would be ill-done to joke with men as hungry as you are, I take
it," answered Marteau.
"Hurry, then," cried a fourth.
"In good time, my friends. First, a word with you. What are you going
to do with those two prisoners?"
"Knock the men in the head, I told you," answered the leader.
"And the woman?"
"We are trying to settle who should have her--first."
"It's a pity there's only one, still----" began another.
"I'll make a bargain with you, then," interrupted Marteau quickly,
fingering his weapon while he spoke. "Food and drink in plenty for
you, the woman for me."
"And what do you want of the woman?"
"Before I was a soldier I lived in Aumenier, I told you. I served
these people. This woman is an aristocrat. I hate her."
It was an old appeal and an old comment but it served. These were wild
days like those of the revolution, the license and rapine and ravagings
of which some of the older men present could very well recall.
"She treated me like dirt under her feet," went on the officer. "Now I
want to have my turn."
"Marteau!" cried the woman for the first time, recognizing him as he
turned a grim face toward her, upon which he had very successfully
counterfeited a look of hatred. "Is it indeed----"
"Silence," thundered the young soldier, stepping near to her and
shaking his clenched fist in her face. "These worthy patriots will
give you to me, and then----"
There was a burst of wild laughter throughout the room.
"It's these cursed aristocrats that have brought these hateful Russians
upon us," cried one.
"Give her to the lad and let us have food and drink," cried another.
"He'll deal with her," cried a third.
"You hear?" asked the chief.
"I hear," answered Marteau. "Listen. My father kept this house for
its owners. He is dead in the village yonder."
"The wine, the wine," roared one, licking his lips.
"Food. I starve," cried another, baring his teeth.
"Wait. Naturally, fleeing from the army, I came to him. My sister is
dead too, outraged, murdered. You know?"
"Yes, yes, we know."
"I want to get my revenge on someone and who better than she?"
The young officer did not dare again to look at the young woman. He
could feel the horror, the amazement, the contempt in her glance. Was
this one of the loyal Marteaux?
"Make her suffer for us!"
"Our children!"
"Our mothers!"
"Our daughters!" cried one after the other, intoxicated with their
wrongs, real or fancied, their faces black with rage, their clenched
hands raised to heaven as if invoking vengeance.
"Have no fear," said Marteau. "Because of my father's position I know
where the wine cellar is, and there is food there."
"Lead on," said the chief. "We've talked too much."
"This way," replied the young captain, lifting the only candlestick
from the table. "Leave two men to watch the woman and give the alarm,
the rest follow me."
Marteau knew the old castle like a book. He knew where the keys were
kept. Chatting carelessly and giving them every evidence of his
familiarity, he found the keys, unlocked the doors, led them from room
to room, from level to level, until finally they reached the wine
cellar. It was separated from the cellar in which they stood by a
heavy iron-bound oaken door. In spite of his easy bearing and manner,
suspicions had been aroused in the uneasy minds of the rabble, but when
Marteau lifted the candle and bade them bring their own lights and see
through an iron grating in the door what the chamber beyond contained
and they recognized the casks and bottles, to say nothing of hams,
smoked meats and other eatables, their suspicions vanished. They burst
into uproarious acclamation.
"Hasten," cried the leader.
"This is the last door."
"Have you the key?"
"It is here."
Marteau lifted the key, thrust it in the lock and turned it slowly, as
if by a great effort and, the door opening outward, he drew it back.
"Enter," he said. "Help yourselves."
With cries of joy like famished wolves the whole band poured into the
wine cellar. All, that is, but Marteau. As the last men entered he
flung the door to and with astonishing quickness turned the key in the
lock and turned away. The door had shut with a mighty crash, the noise
had even stopped the rioting plunderers. The first man who had seized
a bottle dropped it crashing to the floor. All eyes and faces turned
toward the door. The last man threw himself against it frantically.
It held as firmly as if it had been the rock wall. They were trapped.
The leader was quicker than the rest. He still had his weapon.
Thrusting it through the iron bars of the grating in the door he pulled
the trigger. There was a mighty roar, a cloud of smoke, but
fortunately in the dim light his aim was bad. Marteau laughed grimly.
"Enjoy yourselves, messieurs. The provisions are good and you may eat
as much as you like. The wine is excellent. Drink your fill!"
The next instant he leaped up the stairs and retraced his steps. It
was a long distance from the wine-cellar to the great room, but through
the grating that gave entrance to the courtyard the sound of shots had
penetrated. One of the ruffians, committing the woman to the care of
the remaining man, started to follow his comrades. He had his pistol
in his hand. He went noisily, muttering oaths, feeling that something
was wrong but not being able to divine exactly what. Marteau heard him
coming. He put the candle down, concealed himself and, as the man
came, struck him heavily over the head with the butt of his remaining
pistol. He fell like a log. Leaving the candle where it was, the
young officer, dispossessing his victim of his pistols, entered the
hall and, instead of entering the great room by the door by which he
had left it, ran along the hall to the main entrance and thus took the
remaining brigand in the rear.
This man was one of those who had seized the Countess Laure. In spite
of herself the girl started as the officer appeared in the doorway.
The man felt her start, wheeled, his eyes recognized the officer. He
had no pistol, but his fingers went to his belt and with the quickness
of light itself he hurled a knife straight at Marteau. The woman with
equal speed caught the man's arm and disturbed his aim. Her movement
was purely instinctive. According to his own words she had even more
to fear from Marteau than from this ruffian. The young officer
instantly dropped to his knees and as he did so presented his pistol
and fired. The knife whistled harmlessly over his head and buried
itself in the wood paneling of the door. The bullet sped straight to
its mark. The unfortunate blackguard collapsed on the floor at the
feet of the girl, who screamed and shrank back shuddering.
"Now, mademoiselle," said the young man, advancing into the room, "I
have the happiness to inform you that you are free."
CHAPTER VII
A RESCUE AND A SIEGE
The woman stared at him in wild amazement. That she was free
temporarily at least, could not be gainsaid. Her captors had not seen
fit to bind her and she now stood absolutely untouched by anyone. The
shooting, the fighting, had confused her. She had only seen Marteau as
an accomplice and friend of her assailants, she had no clew to his
apparent change of heart. She did not know whether she had merely
exchanged masters or what had happened. Smiling ironically at her
bewilderment, which he somehow resented in his heart, Marteau proceeded
to further explanation.
"You are free, mademoiselle," he repeated emphatically, bowing before
her.
"But I thought----"
"Did you think that I could be allied with such cowardly thieves and
vagabonds as those?"
"But you said----"
"It was simply a ruse. Could you imagine that one of my family, that
I, should fail in respect and devotion to one of yours, to you? I
determined to free you the instant I saw you."
"And will you not complete your good work?" broke out the man tied to
the chair in harsh and foreign but sufficiently comprehensible French,
"by straightway releasing me, young sir?"
"But who is this?"
"This is Sir Gervaise Yeovil," answered Mademoiselle Laure, "my
attorney, an English officer-of-the-law, of Lord Castlereagh's suite,
who came with me from Chatillon to get certain papers and----"
"Why all this bother and explanation?" burst out Sir Gervaise. "Tell
him to cut these lashes and release me from this cursed bondage," he
added in English.
"That is quite another matter, sir," said Marteau gravely. "I regret
that you are an enemy and that I can not----"
"But we are not enemies, Monsieur," cried one of the officers, who had
just succeeded in working a gag out of his mouth. "We are Russian
officers of the Imperial Guard and since you have deserted the cause of
the Corsican you will----"
"Deserted!" thundered Marteau, his pale face flaming. "That was as
much a ruse as the other."
"What, then, do you mean by wearing a Russian coat over your uniform
and----"
"He is a spy. He shall be hanged," said the other, also freeing
himself of his gag.
"Indeed," laughed Marteau. "And do you gentlemen ask me to release you
in order that you may hang me?"
"I won't hang you," burst out the Englishman. "On the contrary, I'll
give you fifty pounds if you'll cut these cords and----"
Marteau shook his head.
"Countess," bellowed Yeovil angrily, "there's a knife on the table
yonder, pray do you----"
The young woman made a swift step in that direction, but the Frenchman
was too quick for her.
"Pardon me, mademoiselle, I beg that the first use you make of your new
life be not to aid my enemies."
"Your enemies, Marteau?"
"The enemies of France, then."
"Not my uncle's France," said the girl.
"But your father's, and I had hoped yours."
"No, no."
"In any event, these gentlemen must remain bound for the time being.
No harm shall come to you from me," continued Marteau, addressing the
two officers. "But as for these hounds----" He stepped over to the
two Cossacks, who lay mute. He bent over them with such a look of
rage, ruthless determination and evil purpose in his face as startled
the woman into action.
"Monsieur!" she cried, stepping over to him and striving to interpose
between him and the two men. "Marteau, what would you do?"
"My sister--dead in the cottage yonder after--after----" he choked out.
He stopped, his fingers twitching. "My old father! If I served them
right I would pitch them into yonder fireplace or torture them, the
dogs, the cowards!"
"My friend," said the young Countess gently, laying her hand on his arm.
Marteau threw up his hands, that touch recalled him to his senses.
"I will let them alone for the present," he said. "Meanwhile----" He
seized the dead man and dragged the body out of sight behind the tables.
"Will monsieur give a thought to me?" came another voice from the dim
recesses of a far corner.
"And who are you?" asked Marteau, lifting the light and staring.
"A Frenchman, sir. They knocked me on the head and left me for dead,
but if monsieur would assist me I----"
Marteau stepped over to him, bent down and lifted him up. He was a
stout, hardy looking peasant boy, pale cheeked, with blood clotted
around his forehead from a blow that he had received. Feverish fire
sparkled in his eyes.
"If monsieur wishes help to put these brutes out of the way command
me," he said passionately.
"We will do nothing with them at present," answered Marteau.
"Quick, Laure, the knife," whispered the Englishman.
The Frenchman heard him, however, and wheeled around.
"Mademoiselle," he cried, "on your honor I charge you not to abuse the
liberty I have secured for you and that I allow you."
"But, my friends----"
"If you had depended on your friends you would even now be----" he
paused--"as my sister," he added with terrific intensity.
"Your pleasure shall be mine," said the young woman.
"If I could have a drink of wine!" said the young peasant, sinking down
into a chair.
"There is a flask which they did not get in the pocket of one of the
officers yonder," said the young Frenchwoman, looking sympathetically
at the poor exhausted lad.
Marteau quickly recovered it, in spite of the protestations of the
officer, who looked his indignation at this little betrayal by the
woman. He gave some of it to the peasant and then offered it to
mademoiselle and, upon her declining it, took a long drink himself. He
was weak and trembling with all he had gone through.
"Now, what's to be our further course?" asked the countess.
"I don't know yet. I----"
But the answer was never finished. Shots, cries, the sound of
galloping horses came faintly through the open door.
"My men returning!" cried the Russian officer triumphantly. "Our turn
will come now, sir."
Two courses were open. To run or to fight. Duty said go; love said
stay. Duty was stronger. After a moment's hesitation Marteau dashed
for the door. He was too late. The returning Russian cavalry was
already entering the courtyard. Fate had decided against him. He
could not go now. He thought with the swiftness of a veteran. He
sprang back into the hall, threw the great iron-bound door into its
place, turned the massive key in its lock, thanking God that key and
lock were still intact, dropped the heavy bars at top and bottom that
further secured it, just as the first horseman thundered upon the door.
In his rapid passage through the house the young Frenchman had noticed
that all the windows were shuttered and barred, that only the front
door appeared to have been opened. He was familiar with the château.
He knew how carefully its openings had been secured and how often his
father had inspected them, to keep out brigands, the waifs and strays,
the wanderers, the low men of the countryside. For the moment he was
safe with his prisoners, one man and a boy guarding a score of men and
one woman, and holding a château against a hundred and fifty soldiers!
Fortunately, there would be no cannon with that troop of cavalry, there
were no cannon in that wagon train, so that they could not batter down
the château over his head. What his ultimate fate would be he could
not tell. Could he hold that castle indefinitely? If not, what? How
he was to get away and reach Napoleon with his vital news he could not
see. There must be some way, however. Well, whatever was to be would
be, and meanwhile he could only wait developments and hold on.
The troopers outside were very much astonished to find the heavy door
closed and the two sentries dead on the terrace. They dismounted from
their horses at the foot of the terrace and crowded about the door,
upon which they beat with their pistols, at the same time shouting the
names and titles of the officers within. Inside the great hall Marteau
had once more taken command. In all this excitement Laure d'Aumenier
had stood like a stone, apparently indifferent to the appeals of the
four bound men on the floor and the Englishman in the chair that she
cut the ropes with which they were bound, while the French officer was
busy at the door. Perhaps that young peasant might have prevented her,
but as a matter of fact, she made no attempt to answer their pleas.
She stood waiting and watching. Just as Marteau reëntered the room the
chief Russian officer shouted out a command. From where he lay on the
floor his voice did not carry well and there was too much tumult
outside for anyone to hear. In a second Marteau was over him.
"If you open your mouth again, monsieur," he said fiercely, "I shall
have to choose between gagging and killing you, and I incline to the
latter. And these other gentlemen may take notice. You, what are you
named?"
"Pierre Lebois, sir," answered the peasant.
"Can you fire a gun?"
"Give me a chance," answered the young fellow. "I've got people dead,
yonder, to avenge."
The brigands had left the swords and pistols of the officers on chairs,
tables and the floor. There were eight pistols. Marteau gathered them
up. The English baronet yielded one other, a huge, heavy,
old-fashioned weapon.
"There are loopholes in the shutters yonder," said the officer. "Do
you take that one, I will take the other. They will get away from the
door in a moment and as soon as you can see them fire."
"Mademoiselle," said the Russian officer desperately, "I shall have to
report to the commander of the guard and he to the Czar that you gave
aid and comfort to our enemies."
"But what can I do?" asked the young woman. "Monsieur Marteau could
certainly shoot me if I attempted----"
"Assuredly," said Marteau, smiling at her in a way anything but fierce.
It was that implicit trust in her that restrained her and saved him.
As a girl the young countess had been intensely fond of Jean Marteau.
He certainly appeared well in his present role before her. In the
revulsion of feeling in finding him not a bully, not a traitor, but a
devoted friend and servitor, he advanced higher in her estimation than
ever before. Besides, the young woman was by no means so thoroughgoing
a loyalist as her old uncle, for instance.
"I can see them now, monsieur," said the young peasant from the
peep-hole in the shutter.
Indeed, the men outside had broken away from the door, groups were
running to and fro seeking lights and some other entrance. Taking aim
at the nearest Marteau pulled the trigger and Pierre followed his
example. The noise of the explosions was succeeded by a scream of
anguish, one man was severely wounded and another killed. Something
mysterious had happened while they had been off on the wild goose chase
apparently, the Russians decided. The château had been seized, their
officers had been made way with, it was held by the enemy.
"They can't be anything more than wandering peasants," cried an
imperious voice in Russian outside. "I thought you had made thorough
work with them all, Scoref," continued the speaker. "Your Cossacks
must have failed to complete the job."
"It will be the first time," answered Scoref, the _hetman_ of the
raiders. "Look, the village burns!"
"Well, what's to be done now?" said the first voice.
"I don't know, Baron," was the answer. "Besieging castles is more in
your line than in mine."
"Shall we fire again, monsieur?" asked Pierre within.
"No," was the answer. "Remember we've only got eight shots and we must
wait."
"Let us have lights," cried the commander of the squadron. "Here, take
one of those wagons and----"
In a few moments a bright fire was blazing in the courtyard.
"The shots came from those windows," continued the Russian. "Keep out
of the way and---- Isn't that a window open up there?"
"It is, it is!" came the answer from a dozen throats.
All the talk being in Russian was, of course, not understood by the two
Frenchmen.
"One of you climb up there," continued the Russian. "You see the
spout, and the coping, that buttress? Ten roubles to the man who does
it."
A soldier sprang forward. Those within could hear his heavy body rub
along the wall. They did not know what he was doing or what was
toward. They were in entire ignorance that a shutter had become
detached from its hinges in the room above the drawing-room and that
they would soon have to face an attack from the rear. The man who
climbed fancied himself perfectly secure, and indeed he was from those
within. It was a hard climb, but presently he reached the
window-ledge. His hands clasped it, he made a brave effort, drew
himself up and on the instant from beyond the wagons came a pistol
shot. The man shrieked, released his hold and fell crashing to the
ground. The besiegers broke into wild outcries. Some of them ran in
the direction whence the shot had come. They thought they caught the
glimpse of a figure running away in the darkness. Pistols were fired
and the vicinity was thoroughly searched, but they found nothing.
The shot, the man's cry overhead, the body crashing down to the ground,
enlightened Marteau. He handed Pierre two of the six remaining
pistols, told him to run to the floor above and watch the window. The
young peasant crossed himself and turned away. He found the room
easily enough. It was impossible to barricade the window, but he drew
back in the darkness and waited.
Having found no one in the grove beyond the baggage-wagons, the
Russians called for another volunteer and a second man offered. Pierre
heard him coming, permitted him to gain the ledge and then thrust the
pistol in his face and pulled the trigger. At the same time a big
Cossack coming within easy range and standing outlined between the
loophole and the fire, Marteau gave him his second bullet, with fatal
effect. There flashed into his mind that the shot which had come so
opportunely from outside bespoke the arrival of his friend, the
grenadier. He hoped the man would have sense enough to go immediately
to Sézanne and report the situation. If he could maintain the defense
of the castle for two hours he might be rescued. He stepped to the
hall and called up to Pierre. Receiving a cheery reply to the effect
that all was well and that he would keep good watch, he came back into
the great hall and resumed his ward.
CHAPTER VIII
A TRIAL OF ALLEGIANCE
Mademoiselle d'Aumenier had seated herself at a table and remained
there in spite of the entreaties and black looks of the prisoners.
Marteau did not dare to leave his loophole, but the necessity for
watching did not prevent him from talking. The men outside seemed to
have decided that nothing more could be done for the present. They
withdrew from out of range of the deadly fire of the defenders and,
back of the wagons, kindled fires, and seemed to be preparing to make a
night of it.
The best officers of the detachment were prisoners in the château. The
subordinate who had been entrusted with the pursuit was young and
inexperienced; the Cossack commander was a mere raider. They
themselves belonged to the cavalry. They decided, after inspecting the
whole building carefully as nearly as they dared in view of the
constant threat of discharge, that they would have to wait until
morning, unless something occurred to them or some chance favored them.
They trusted that at daylight they would have no difficulty in
effecting an entrance somewhere. A total of three men dead and one
wounded, to say nothing of the sentries and officers, had a
discouraging effect on night work. They did not dream that there was
an enemy, a French soldier, that is, nearer than Troyes. They supposed
that the castle had been seized by some of the enraged country people
who had escaped the Cossacks and that they could easily deal with them
in the morning.
Incidentally, the wine cellars in which the peasants had been shut had
openings to the outer air, and through them came shouts and cries which
added to the mystification of the besiegers and increased their
prudence. The walls of the château were massive, the floors thick, the
wine cellar far away, and no sound came from them to the inmates of the
great hall. Indeed, in the exciting adventure that had taken place,
the raiders had been completely forgot by Marteau and the others.
The conversation in the hall was not animated. The Countess Laure,
womanlike, at last began to ask questions.
"Monsieur Marteau," she asked persuasively, "will you hear reason?"
"I will hear anything, mademoiselle, from you," was the instant reply.
"Think of the unhappy state of France."
"I have had reason enough to think of it to-night, mademoiselle. My
father and my sister----" his voice faltered.
"I know," said the girl sympathetically, and, indeed, she was deeply
grieved for the misfortunes of the faithful and devoted old man and the
young girl she had loved. She waited a moment and then continued.
"The Emperor is at last facing defeat. His cause is hopeless."
"He yet lives," answered the soldier softly.
"Yes, of course," said the woman. "I do not understand the military
situation, but my friends----"
"Will monsieur allow me the favor of a word?" interposed the chief
Russian officer courteously.
"If it is not to summon assistance you may speak," replied Marteau.
"As a soldier you know the situation as well as I," continued the
Russian. "Prince Von Schwarzenberg has Napoleon in his grasp. He will
hold him until he is ready to seize him, while Field-Marshal Blücher
takes Paris."
"The Emperor yet lives," said Marteau, repeating his former remark with
more emphasis and smiling somewhat scornfully. "It is not wise to
portion the lion's skin while it covers his beating heart," he added
meaningly.
"Not even the genius of your Emperor," persisted the Russian more
earnestly, "will avail now, monsieur. He is lost, his cause as well.
Why, this very convoy tells the story. We intercepted letters that
told how pressing was its need. Your army is without arms, without
food, without clothes."
"It still has its Emperor."
"Death!" cried the Russian impatiently. "Must we kill him in order to
teach you a lesson?"
"You will not kill him while there is a soldier in France to interpose
his body."
"Very heroic, doubtless," sneered the Russian, beginning to get angry.
"But you know your cause is lost."
"And if it were?"
"Be reasonable. There are many Frenchmen with the allied armies. Your
rank is----?"
"I am a Major on the Emperor's staff if you are interested to know."
"Major Marteau, I have no doubt that my interest with my Emperor, the
Czar Alexander, with whom I am remotely connected--I may say I am a
favorite officer in his guard--would doubtless insure you a Colonel's
commission, perhaps even that of a General of Brigade, with my gracious
master, or in the army of King Louis after we have replaced him on his
throne if----"
"If what?"
"If you release us, restore us to our command. Permit us to send for
horses to take the place of those we have killed to take the wagons of
the valuable convoy to our own army."
"And you would have me abandon my Emperor?"
"For the good of France," urged the Russian meaningly.
"Will you answer me a question, monsieur?" continued the young man
after a moment's deep thought.
"Certainly, if it be not treason to my master."
"Oh, you have views on treason, then," said the Frenchman adroitly and
not giving the other time to answer he continued. "To what corps are
you attached?"
"Count Sacken's."
"And whose division?"
"General Olsuvieff's."
"Monsieur," said the young Frenchman calmly, "it is more than probable
that before to-morrow your division will be annihilated and the next
day the corps of General Sacken may meet the same fate."
The Russian laughed scornfully at what seemed to him the wildest
boasting.
"Are you mad?"
"Not so mad as you will be when it happens."
The Russian controlled himself with difficulty in the face of the
irritating observations.
"And who will do this?" he asked, at last.
"The Emperor."
"Does he command the lightning-flash that he could hurl the
thunder-bolt from Troyes?"
"Upon my word, I believe he does," laughed the Frenchman.
"This is foolish jesting, boy," broke out the Englishman. "I am a man
of consideration in my own country. The lady here will bear me out. I
offered you fifty pounds. I will give you five hundred if you will
release us and----"
"And I offer you my--friendship," said the Countess, making a long
pause before the last word.
How much of it she meant or how little no one could say. Any ruse was
fair in war like this. Marteau looked at her. The color flamed to her
cheek and died away. It had flamed into his cheek and died away also.
"Gentlemen," he said, "you offer me rank, money----" he
paused--"friendship----" he shot a meaning glance at the young girl.
He paused again.
"Well?" said the Russian.
"Speak out," said the Englishman. "Your answer, lad?"
"I refuse."
"Don't be a fool," roared Sir Gervaise bluntly.
"I refuse, I repeat," said Marteau. "While the Emperor lives I am his
man. Not rank, not money, not friendship, not love itself even could
move me. Enough, gentlemen," he continued imperiously as the two
Russians and the Englishman all began to speak at once. "No more.
Such propositions are insults."
"There is another appeal which ought to be brought to your attention,
young sir," said the second Russian officer when he could be heard.
"And what is that?"
"Your life. You know that as soon as day breaks the château will be
seized. You are a self-confessed spy. You came here wearing a Russian
uniform. As soon as we are released we shall hang you as a spy. But
if you release us now, on my word of honor you shall go free."
"Monsieur is a very brave man," said Marteau smiling.
"Why?"
"To threaten me with death while he is in my power. You are the only
witnesses. I could make way with you all."
"You forget the Countess and the English gentleman."
"Although the Countess is the enemy of France----"
"Nay, nay, the friend," interposed the girl.
"Be it so. Although she is the enemy of the Emperor then, I cannot
believe that she could condemn to death by her testimony the man who
has saved her from worse than death, and as for the English
gentleman----"
"Damme if I'd say a word to hurt you, if only for what you have done
for her, whether you release me or not," cried Yeovil.
"You see?"
"Monsieur Jean," said the Countess, "you put me under great obligations
to you."
"By saving your life, your honor, mademoiselle! I gladly----"
"By giving me your confidence," interrupted the girl, who in her secret
heart was delighted at the stand the young officer had taken. She
would have despised him if he had succumbed to the temptation of which
she herself was part.
"I could do no less, mademoiselle," returned Marteau. "I and my
forbears have served your house and known it and loved it for eight
hundred years."
"I know it," answered the girl. "I value the association. I am proud
of it."
"And since you know it and recognize it perhaps you will tell me how
you happen to be here."
"Willingly," answered Mademoiselle Laure. "The estates are to be sold.
There are deeds and papers of value in the château without which
transactions could not be completed. I alone knew where they were.
With Monsieur Yeovil, my uncle's friend and the father of----" she
hesitated and then went on, "so I came to France."
"But with the invading armies----"
"There was no other way. The Czar Alexander gave me a safe conduct. A
company of his guards escorted us. Sir Gervaise Yeovil was accredited
to Lord Castlereagh, but with his permission he brought me here first.
My uncle was too old to come. Arrived here we found the Cossacks, the
wagon-train. There was a battle, a victory, pursuit. Then those
villains seized us. They stole upon us unsuspecting, having murdered
the sentries, and then you came."
"I see. And have you the papers?"
"They are---- Not yet, but I may take them?"
"Assuredly, so far as I am concerned," answered Marteau, "although I
regret to see the old estate pass out of the hands of the ancient
family."
"I regret it also, but I am powerless."
"We played together here as children," said Marteau. "My father has
kept it well since. Your father died and now mine is gone----"
"And I am very sorry," answered the young woman softly.
Marteau turned away, peered out of the window and sank into gloomy
silence.
CHAPTER IX
THE EMPEROR EATS AND RIDES
Sézanne was a scene of the wildest confusion that night. It was
congested with troops and more and more were arriving every minute.
They entered the town in fearful condition. They had been weary and
ragged and naked before. Now they were in a state of extreme
prostration; wet, cold, covered with mud. The roads were blocked with
mired artillery, the guns were sunk into the mud to the hubs, the tired
horses could no longer move them. The woods on either side were full
of stragglers, many of whom had dropped down on the wet ground and
slept the sleep of complete exhaustion. Some, indeed, sick and
helpless, died where they lay. Everything eatable and drinkable in
Sézanne had vanished as a green field before a swarm of locusts when
Marmont's division had come through some hours before.
The town boasted a little square or open space in the midst. A huge
fire was burning in the center of this open space. A cordon of
grenadiers kept the ground about the fire clear of stragglers.
Suddenly the Emperor rode into the midst. He was followed by a wet,
cold, mud-spattered, bedraggled staff, all of them unutterably weary.
Intense resolution blazed in the Emperor's eyes. He had had nothing to
eat or drink since morning, but that ancient bodily vigor, that
wonderful power of endurance, which had stood him in such good stead in
days gone by, seemed to have come back to him now. He was all fire and
energy and determination. So soon as his presence was known, couriers
reported to him. Many of them he stopped with questions.
"The convoy of arms, provisions, powder," he snapped out to an officer
of Marmont's division approaching him, "which was to meet us here.
Have you seen it?"
"It has not appeared, Sire."
"Has anything been heard of it?"
"Nothing yet, your Majesty."
"Have you scouted for it, sent out parties to find it? Where is the
Comte de Grouchy?"
"I come from him, Sire. He is ahead of the Duke of Ragusa's corps."
"Has he come in touch with the enemy?"
"Not yet, Sire."
"The roads?"
"Worse than those we have passed over."
"Marshal Marmont?"
"I was ordered by General Grouchy to report to him and then----"
"Well, sir?"
"He sent me back here."
"For what purpose?"
"To find you, Sire, and to say to you most respectfully from the
Marshal that the roads are absolutely impassable. He has put four
teams to a gun and can scarcely move them. To advance is impossible.
He but awaits your order to retrace his steps."
"Retrace his steps!" shouted Napoleon, raising his voice. "Never! He
must go on. Our only hope, our only chance, salvation lies in an
instant advance. He knows that as well as I."
"But the guns, Sire?"
"Abandon the guns if necessary. We'll take what cannon we need from
the enemy."
And that admission evidenced the force with which the Emperor held his
convictions as to the present movement. Great, indeed, was the
necessity which would induce Napoleon to order the abandonment of a
single gun.
"But, Sire----"
"Monsieur," said Napoleon severely, "you are a young officer, although
you wear the insignia of a Colonel. Know that I am not accustomed to
have my commands questioned by anyone. You will return to Marshal
Marmont at once. Exchange your tired horse for one of my own. I still
have a fresh one, I believe. And spare him not. Tell the Duc de
Ragusa that he must advance at all hazards. Advance with the guns if
he can, if not then without them. Stay, as for the guns---- Where is
the Mayor of the town?"
"Here, Sire," answered a plain, simple man in civilian's dress standing
near.
"Are there any horses left in the countryside, monsieur?"
"Many, your Majesty, wherever the Russians have not passed."
"I thought so. Gentlemen," the Emperor turned to his staff, "ride in
every direction. Take the mounted escort. Bid them scatter. Go to
every village and farm. Ask my good French people to bring their
horses in, to lend them to the Emperor. It is for France. I strike
the last blow for them, their homes, their wives and children. Fortune
smiles upon us. The enemy is delivered into our hands. They shall be
liberally rewarded."
"The men are hungry," cried a voice from a dark group of officers in
the background.
"They are weary," exclaimed another, under cover of the darkness.
"Who spoke?" asked the Emperor, but he did not wait for an answer,
perhaps he did not care for one. "I, too, am hungry, I, your Emperor,
and I am weary. I have eaten nothing and have ridden the day long.
There is bread, there are guns in the Field-Marshal's army. We shall
take from Blücher all that we need. Then we can rest. You hear?"
"We hear, Sire."
"Good. Whose division is yonder?"
"Mine, Sire," answered Marshal Ney, riding up and saluting.
"Ah, Prince," said Napoleon, riding over toward him. "Michael," he
added familiarly as he drew nearer, "I am confident that the Prussians
have no idea that we are nearer than Troyes to them. We must get
forward with what we can at once and fall on them before they learn of
our arrival and concentrate. We must move swiftly."
"To-morrow," suggested Ney.
"To-night."
"The conscripts of my young guard are in a state of great exhaustion
and depression. If they could have the night to rest in----"
Napoleon shook his head.
"Advance with those who can march," he said decisively. "We must fall
on Blücher in the morning or we are lost."
"Impossible!" ejaculated Ney.
"I banished that word from my vocabulary when I first went into Italy,"
said Napoleon. "Where are your troops?"
"Here, your Majesty," answered Ney, turning, pointing back to dark
huddled ranks drooping over their muskets at parade rest.
Napoleon wheeled his horse and trotted over to them. The iron hand of
Ney had kept some sort of discipline and some sort of organization, but
the distress and dismay of the conscripts was but too plainly evident.
"My friends," said the Emperor, raising his voice, "you are hungry----"
a dull murmur of acquiescence came from the battalion--"you are weary
and cold----" a louder murmur--"you are discouraged----" silence.
"Some of you have no arms. You would fain rest. Well I, your Emperor,
am weary, I am hungry, I am old enough to be the father of most of you
and I am wet and cold. But we must forget those things. You wonder
why I have marched you all the day and most of the night through the
cold and the wet and the mud. The Prussians are in front of us. They
are drawn out in long widely separated columns. They have no idea that
we are near them. One more effort, one more march, and we shall fall
upon them. We shall pierce their lines, cut them to pieces, beat them
in detail; we shall seize their camps, their guns, their clothes, their
food. We shall take back the plunder they have gathered as they have
ravaged France. They have stolen and destroyed and murdered--you have
seen it. One more march, one more battle for----" he hesitated a
moment--"for me," he said with magnificent egotism and audacity. "I
have not forgotten how to lead, nor you to follow. We will show them
that at the great game of war we are still master players. Come, if
there be one too weary to walk, he shall have his Emperor's horse and I
will march afoot as I have often done for France."
He spoke with all his old force and power. The tremendous personal
magnetism of the man was never more apparent. The young men of Ney's
corps thrilled to the splendid appeal. There was something
fascinating, alluring in the picture. They hated the Prussians. They
had seen the devastated fields, the dead men and women, the ruined
farms. The light from the fire played mystically about the great
Emperor on his white horse. He seemed to them like a demi-god. There
were a few old soldiers in the battalion. The habit of years was upon
them.
"_Vive l'Empereur_," one veteran shouted.
Another caught it up and finally the whole division roared out that
frightful and thrilling battle cry in unison.
"That's well," said the Emperor, a little color coming into his face.
"If the lads are of this mettle, what may I expect of the old soldiers
of the guard?"
"Forward! Forward!" shouted a beardless boy in one of the front ranks.
"You hear, Marshal Ney?" said Napoleon, turning to his fighting
Captain. "With such soldiers as these I can go anywhere and do
anything."
"Your Majesty," cried a staff officer, riding up at a gallop, "the
peasants are bringing their horses in. There is a section of country
to the eastward which has not yet been ridden over by the enemy."
"Good," said the Emperor. "As fast as they come up dispatch them to
Marmont. You will find me there by the fire in the square for the next
hour. Meanwhile I want the next brigade of horse that reaches Sézanne
to be directed to scout in the direction of Aumenier for that missing
wagon-train for which we----"
There was a sudden confusion on the edge of the line. The grenadiers
forming a circle around the fire had caught a man wearing a Russian
greatcoat and were dragging him into the light.
"What's this? _Mon Dieu_!" exclaimed Napoleon, recognizing the green
uniform which he had seen on many a battlefield. "A Russian! Here!"
"A soldier of France, Sire," came the astonishing answer in excellent
French from the supposed prisoner.
At this amazing remark in their own tongue the bewildered grenadiers on
guard released him. He tore off the green cap and dashed it to the
ground.
"Give me a shako. Let me feel the bearskin of the guard again," he
cried impetuously, as his hands ripped open his overcoat, disclosing
his uniform. "I am a grenadier of the line, Sire."
Napoleon peered down at him.
"Ah," he said, "I know you. You are called----"
"Bal-Arrêt, your Majesty."
"Exactly. Have you stopped any more this time?"
"There is one in my left arm. Your guards hurt when they grasped it.
But it is nothing. I didn't come here to speak of bullets, but of----"
"What?"
"The Russians, the Prussians."
"Where did you get that coat and cap?"
"I rode with Jean Marteau," answered the grenadier, greatly excited.
"What of him? Is he alive?"
"I think so."
"Did you leave him?"
"I did, Sire."
"And why?"
"To bring you news."
"Of Marshal Blücher's armies?"
The grenadier nodded his head.
"What of them? Quick man, your tidings? Have you been among them?"
"All day long."
"Where are they?"
"General Yorck with his men is at Étampes."
"And Macdonald?"
"Fighting a rearguard action beyond Château-Thierry."
"On what side of the Marne?"
"The north side, Sire. Right at La Ferte-sous-Jouarre."
"What else?"
"Sacken's Russians are advancing along the main road through Montmirail
toward Paris. Olusuvieff's Russian division is at Champaubert."
"And where are Blücher and Wittgenstein and Wrede?"
"Major Marteau will have to tell you that, Sire. He went that way."
"You separated?"
"Yes, Sire."
"You were to meet somewhere?"
"At the Château d'Aumenier."
"Did you go there?"
"I did, Sire."
"And you found?"
"The ground around the château filled with wagons."
"A train?"
"Of arms, clothing, ammunition, everything the army lacks."
"What was it doing there?"
"There had been a battle. Horses and men were slain; Frenchmen,
Cossacks, Russians. I pillaged one wagon," continued the grenadier.
He drew forth from the pocket of the coat a bottle and a handful of
hard bread, together with what remained of the roast pig.
"Will you share your meal with a brother soldier?" asked the Emperor,
who was ordinarily the most fastidious of mortals, but who could on
occasion assume the manner of the rudest private soldier.
"Gladly," said the proud and delighted grenadier, handing the bottle,
the bread and the meat to Napoleon, who took them and drank and ate
rapidly as he continued to question amid the approving murmurs of the
soldiers, who were so delighted to see their Emperor eat like a common
man that they quite forgot their own hunger.
"What were the wagons doing there unguarded?"
"I think the men who captured the train were pursuing its guard. Just
as I approached the chateau they came riding back. I remained quiet,
watching them ride up to the door of the house, which they found barred
apparently, for I could hear them beat on it with the butts of their
sabers and pistols. They built a fire and suddenly I heard shots. By
the light I could see Russians falling. It came into my mind that
Major Marteau had seized the castle and was holding it."
"Alone?"
"One soldier of yours, Sire, ought to be able to hold his own against a
thousand Russians, especially inside a castle wall."
"And what did you then?"
"I made ready my pistol, Sire, and when I saw a man climbing the wall
to get in an open window I shot him."
"And then?"
"They ran after me, fired at me but I escaped in the darkness."
"You ran?"
"Because I knew that you must have the news and as Marteau was there it
was necessary for me to bring it."
"You have done well," said the Emperor in great satisfaction. "I thank
you for your tidings and your meal. I have never tasted a better. Do
you wish to go to the rear?"
"For a scratch in the arm?" asked old Bullet-Stopper scornfully. "I,
who have carried balls in my breast and have some there now?"
"I like your spirit," said the Emperor, "and I will----"
At this instant a staff officer rode up.
"General Maurice's cavalry is just arriving, Sire," he said.
"Good," said the Emperor. "The brave light-horseman! My sword hand!
I will ride with him myself. Tell the Comte de Vivonne to lead his
division toward Aumenier, I will join him at once." He turned to those
of his staff who remained in the square. "Remain here, gentlemen.
Tell the arriving troops that at daybreak we shall beat the Russians at
Champaubert. Bid them hasten if they would take part in the victory
and the plunder. The rest will be easy."
"And you, Sire?"
"I ride with the cavalry brigade to Aumenier. Tell the men that the
wagon-train has arrived. We shall seize it. Food, arms, will be
distributed in the morning. Is that you, Maurice?" he continued, as a
gallant young general officer attended by a few aides rode up.
"At your service, Sire," answered a gay voice.
"Your cavalry?"
"Weary but ready to follow the Emperor anywhere."
"Forward, then. There is food and drink at the end of our ride. It is
but a few miles to Aumenier."
"May I have a horse and go with you, Sire?" asked the old grenadier.
"Assuredly. See that he gets one and a Cross of the Legion of Honor,
too. Come, gentlemen," continued the Emperor, putting spurs to his
tired horse.
CHAPTER X
HOW MARTEAU WON THE CROSS
For a long time the besiegers had given little evidence of their
presence. Through the loop-holes in the shutters fires could be seen
burning, figures coming and going. They were busy about something, but
just what was not apparent. They had been unmolested by the defenders.
Marteau had but three pistols and therefore three shots left. Pierre,
upstairs, had but one. To kill one or two more Russians would not have
bettered their condition. The pistols should be saved for a final
emergency. He had called up to Pierre and had cautioned him. There
was nothing to do but to wait.
From time to time the silence was broken by snatches of conversation.
As, for instance, the Countess Laure, observing that Marteau wore upon
his breast the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor, thus began,
"You wear a great decoration for a simple----" She stopped awkwardly.
"For a simple peasant you were about to say, mademoiselle," answered
Marteau, smiling with a little touch of scorn. "In France to-day even
a simple peasant may deserve and receive the favor of the Emperor."
"I am sure that you are worthy of whatever distinction you may have
achieved, monsieur," said the Countess gently, grieved at her lack of
consideration and anxious to make amends. "And as one who takes pride
in all associated with her ancient house will you tell me how you got
that?"
"It was at Leipsic."
"Ah, we beat you there," said one Russian meaningly.
"Yes," said Marteau. "Perhaps after having seen your backs so many
times we could afford to turn ours upon you once."
"I was there," said the other Russian triumphantly.
"Were you also at Friedland, at Eylau, at Borodino, at----" began
Marteau angrily.
"Gentlemen!" said the Countess.
"Forgive, mademoiselle," said the Frenchman quickly. "I, at least,
will not fight our battles over in the presence of a woman."
"But the cross?"
"It was nothing. I saved an eagle. The Emperor bestowed it on me."
"Tell me about it."
"I was on the bridge at Leipsic when it was blown up by that fatal
mistake. The Port-Aigle was torn to pieces. The Colonel seized the
Eagle as it fell from his hand. I was next to him--afoot. A storm of
bullets swept over the river. As the Colonel on his horse was pushed
over the parapet by the flying fugitives a shot struck him. He had
just strength enough to gasp out, 'Save the Eagle' as he was swept
away. I was lucky enough to catch the staff--a bullet had broken it--I
seized the upper half with the Eagle and the flag which had almost been
shot to pieces during the battle--the Fifth-of-the-Line had done its
full duty that day--and I swam with it toward the bank. Really,
mademoiselle, any soldier would have done as well. I only happened to
be there."
"Go on, monsieur, I wish to hear everything."
"At your pleasure, then," said Marteau reluctantly, continuing his
story.
"The river was filled with men and horses. Marshal Poniatowski was
near me. He had been wounded, and guided his swimming horse with his
left hand. The current was swift. We were swept down the stream. A
cavalryman next to me was shot from his horse. He fell over upon me.
I was forced under water a moment. Another horse, swimming
frantically, struck my shoulder with his hoof, fortunately it was the
left one. My arm was broken. I seized the tatters of the flag in my
teeth--you know I am an expert swimmer, mademoiselle?"
"I know it," answered the girl, her eyes gleaming at the recital.
"Have you forgot the day when, disregarding your warnings, I fell into
the river and was swept away and how you plunged in and brought me to
the shore and never told my father?"
"I have not forgot," said the young officer simply, "but it was not for
me to remind you."
"And I have not forgot, either. But continue the story," said the
young Countess, her eyes shining, her breath coming quicker, as she
listened to the gallant tale so modestly set forth.
"With my right arm I swam as best I could. There was a horse nearby
which had lost his rider. I grasped the saddle horn. Somehow I
managed to reach the shore with the Eagle. I clambered up the bank,
slippery with water and with blood, mademoiselle. The Russians were
firing at us from the town. A bullet struck me."
"Where?"
"I am ashamed to say, in the back," said the soldier, flushing at the
recollection. "But if I had stood up and faced them the Eagle would
have been lost."
The Russian laughed scornfully.
"In the back," he cried meaningly, "a fine place for a soldier!"
"Shame," said the Countess quickly.
"If I had faced them," returned the French soldier simply, "I should
have been shot in the breast and killed, perhaps, but I should have
lost the Eagle. It was my business to save the Eagle at all hazards,
even though I should be branded with cowardice for having done so," he
went on hotly.
"I understand," said the Countess. "I, who have known you from a
child, know that you are a brave man, monsieur. Proceed."
"I staggered up the bank. Fortune had brought me to the place where
the Emperor stood watching. There were staff officers about him. Oh,
very few. The slaughter had been dreadful, the confusion was
inconceivable, mademoiselle. They made way for me. How well I
remember the whole scene," continued the young Frenchman. "The Emperor
stood a little apart, his face pale, his head bent. He was frowning
and whistling."
"Whistling! Damme," burst out Sir Gervaise Yeovil, deeply interested
in the unpretentious account of so heroic a deed. "What was he
whistling?"
"_Malbrook-s'en-va-t'en-guerre_."
"By gad," roared the Englishman. "Marlborough beat you. Just wait
until we come in touch with you."
"There was no Napoleon there," observed Marteau simply, as if that were
adequate answer.
"Napoleon or no Napoleon, wait until Wellington----"
"We shall wait."
"Pardon, Monsieur Yeovil," said the Countess, "will you not allow
Monsieur Marteau to proceed?"
"There is little more to tell, mademoiselle. The Emperor saw me come
up. I was wet, my arm hung useless, the bullet had gone through my
body. There was blood on my uniform coat. I thought that I was dying,
that my end was at hand. My strength was ebbing. I concentrated all
my will and power. Holding the Eagle, I lifted it up in salute. 'What
have we here?' cried the Emperor, fixing his glance upon me.
'Lieutenant Marteau,' I answered. His voice came to me as in a dream
and my own voice sounded far away. 'Of what regiment?' 'The
Fifth-of-the-Line, Sire.' 'You have saved the Eagle.' 'Yes, Sire,' I
replied. And then consciousness left me. As I fell I heard the
Emperor say, 'See that he gets the Legion of Honor if he survives.'
People caught me in their arms. When I woke up I was in France. Here,
at Aumenier, in my father's house."
Young Marteau did not add to his story that, as he fell, he heard the
Emperor, deeply moved, exclaim:
"With such men what resources does not France possess?"
"And did the Emperor give you the cross?" eagerly asked the girl.
"It was forgot until a few days since. When I recovered I rejoined the
regiment. To take the duty of an officer suddenly ill I happened to be
stationed on service near the Emperor at Nogent. When others were
urging him to make terms, I, though a young soldier, ventured to
express myself to the contrary."
"And then?"
"His Majesty pardoned the liberty, recognized me, gave me his own
cross, made me a Major on his staff."
"And the Eagle?"
"It is still carried at the head of what remains of the
Fifth-of-the-Line," said the young man proudly.
"When we have taken your Emperor we will do away with those Eagles, and
after we restore her rightful king to France we shall give her back her
ancient flag of golden lilies," said the Russian.
"Precisely," said Marteau sharply. "When you have taken the Emperor
you may do all that. The men who have made France so great under him
will care little what you do, monsieur, under such circumstances."
"And why will they be so indifferent, Monsieur Jean?" asked the
Countess curiously.
"They will be dead, mademoiselle, and their Emperor, too, unless God
preserve his life for some future use."
"Happy," said the young girl, "is the man who can inspire such
devotion, monsieur. Although I have been trained differently I think
that----"
What the Countess thought was never said for at that instant the door
at the farther end of the great room was thrown open suddenly with a
violent crash, and into the apartment came crowding the score of
villains and scoundrels who had been imprisoned below stairs. They had
managed to break out in some way and had returned to the great hall to
seize again their captives and to wreak their vengeance upon their
betrayer. They had got at the wine and were inflamed with drink as
well as revenge and savage passion. They had realized, of course, that
some enemies were outside but they had not clearly grasped the
situation. All they thought of at the time were the people in the
great hall. They came crowding through the big doorway, several of
them handling pistols and all of them shouting savage and fearsome
cries of revenge and triumph.
Instantly the pistols were presented, the triggers pressed and half a
dozen bullets swept through the room. Marteau had seen the first
movement of the door. He had divined what had happened. Before the
pistols had been leveled he was by the side of the Countess. The table
at which she sat was a huge and heavy one. With one movement he hurled
her, chair and all, to the floor, with the other he threw the table on
its side in front of her. One of the bullets grazed his cheek, the
others swept harmlessly through the room. He seized from another table
two of his remaining pistols and discharged them squarely into the face
of the crowding mass at the other end of the room at point-blank range.
The sounds of the shots still echoed when he cried out:
"The knife, Countess. Cut the bonds of the prisoners. We must fight
here for our lives and your honor."
The Countess Laure was quick to understand.
"You are safe now. They have no more shots. Hasten," he urged,
reaching down a hand and assisting her to her feet.
He clutched the barrels of his pistols thereafter and hurled them
directly into the faces of the infuriated men. Five of them were down
and his prompt action had given the people in the room a little respite.
"Gentlemen," cried Marteau, sweeping out his sword and stepping into
the open space between the prisoners and the overturned table on one
hand and the renegades on the other, "quick, take your swords for the
honor of the Countess and for your lives."
The man who led the renegades had some idea of military tactics. He
spoke a few sharp words and half a dozen of them backed out of the
room, entered the outer hall and ran around to the door on the side of
the apartment which gave access to the great hall. The little band of
defenders retreated into a corner near the fireplace, which was raised
a step or two above the floor of the room.
Meanwhile Laure had cut the lashings of the Russians, the Cossacks, and
the Englishman. They staggered to their feet numb from their long
bondage, but inspired by the frightful imminence of their peril they
seized their swords and presented a bold front to the two-sided enemy.
There was one pistol left charged. Marteau handed that to the girl.
"The last shot, mademoiselle," he said meaningly, "for yourself if----"
"I understand."
"If you could only get to the door," growled the Russian commander, "my
men outside would make short work of----"
"It is impossible until we have dealt with these villains," said
Marteau. "On guard!" he cried as the marauders suddenly leaped forward.
The big Englishman, burly, tremendously powerful for all his advancing
years, dropped his sword for a moment, picked up one of the heavy oak
chairs and hurled it full into the face of the larger body at the
further end of the room. One stumbled over it, two others fell. The
next moment both parties were upon the little group. In their haste,
in their drunken excitement, the marauders had not thought to recharge
their pistols. With swords, scythes and clubs they fell on the six
men. Their numbers worked to their disadvantage. Three of the men
surrounding the woman, the Frenchman and the two Russian guardsmen,
were accomplished swordsmen. The Cossacks were not to be disdained in
rough-and-tumble fighting and the Englishman was a valiant ally. Their
racial antagonisms were forgot in their common danger and the deadly
peril of the woman.
The swords of the soldiers flashed as they thrust and parried. The
Cossacks, less skillful, strove to beat down the attackers by sweeping
slashes--not the best method for such close fighting. One Cossack was
pierced through the breast by a thrust from a renegade and another was
cut from his neck almost to his heart by a blow from a scythe. One of
the Russian officers was wounded, fell to his knees and was dispatched.
The Englishman was hit by a billet of wood and dazed. Marteau and the
other Russian were still unharmed. But it was going hard with them.
In fact, a fierce blow on his blade from a bludgeon shivered the weapon
of the Frenchman. A sword was aimed at his heart. There was a
blinding flash, a detonation, and the man who held it staggered back.
The Countess, the last pistol almost touching the man's body, had
pulled the trigger. Marteau seized the sword of the man who had
menaced him. The next instant the château was shaken by a terrific
roar. The Russians outside having constructed a rude bomb had blown up
the door.
For a second the combat ceased. The hall was full of smoke. From
outside came shots, shrieks, cries, loud curses and groans, cheers,
French and Russian voices, the galloping of horses, words of command.
The French were there.
"To me," shouted Marteau at the top of his voice. "France!"
The first to heed the call was young Pierre. He descended the hall,
watched the conflict a moment and, having possessed himself of a club,
battered down the man nearest him, unsuspecting an attack from the
rear, then ranged himself by the side of the surviving Russian and the
Frenchman. He did not come through scathless, however, for one of the
renegades cut him fiercely as he passed. He stood erect by an effort
of will but it was evident he could now add little to the defense. The
Russian took the pistol from his hand. The next second the great hall
was filled with shouting figures of soldiers. Into the smoke and
confusion of the room came Napoleon.
CHAPTER XI
AN EMPEROR AND A GENTLEMAN
"The Emperor!" cried Marteau.
The Russian officer recognized Napoleon as quickly as the other. The
Emperor advanced, the soldiers crowding after threw themselves upon the
renegades immediately, while the Emperor strode forward alone. The
young Russian noble was a quicker witted man than his countrymen
ordinarily were. He saw a chance to end everything then and there, to
do his country a great service, although his life would be forfeited
instantly in the doing of it.
"My chance," he shouted, raising Pierre's pistol.
The shot was an easy one. It was impossible to miss. Marteau had
stepped forward. The thrill in the tones of the man's voice attracted
his attention. One glance and he saw all. He threw himself in front
of the Emperor just as the Russian pressed the trigger. At the same
moment the Countess Laure, who stood nearest him, struck up the
Russian's arm. The bullet buried itself in the ceiling above.
"Thank God!" cried Marteau as the sound died away and he saw the
Emperor standing unharmed.
Napoleon's keen eye had seen everything.
"It is this lady," said he gracefully, "to whom my safety is due. And
I am not unmindful that you interposed your own body between the bullet
and your Emperor."
"Your Majesty," cried Marteau, now that his Emperor was safe, fain to
discharge his duty, "I have tidings of the utmost importance. I have
held this château and detained this convoy the Russians had captured.
It contains powder, food, guns----"
"I know," said the Emperor. "It comes in the nick of time."
"And I have to report, Sire, that the corps of Wittgenstein, Wrede and
of the Field-Marshal Blücher, himself, are strung out at long intervals
to the eastward of Champaubert. They have no idea of your proximity."
"Are the divisions in supporting distance of one another?"
"No, Sire. Olsuvieff's division lies isolated at Champaubert. As to
the divisions of Sacken and Yorck I think----"
"I have already received information concerning them," said the
Emperor, "from your friend, Bullet-Stopper. He should be here."
"I am here, your Majesty," roared the grenadier, stepping forward, "and
saving your Imperial Presence I am glad to see the lad. It was I,"
continued the grenadier, addressing Marteau and presuming on the
familiarity with which Napoleon sometimes treated his men, "that fired
the shot that brought the man down from the window."
"And that shot saved us," said young Marteau. "This young peasant
here----" he bent over Pierre--"he is not dead, Sire, but sorely
wounded--he kept them out up there while we held the room here."
"But these?" asked Napoleon, looking at the prisoners.
"Renegades who had taken advantage of the absence of the Russians
pursuing the escort to the wagon-train to seize the castle."
"Why did you not impress them for the defense thereof?" asked the
Emperor. "They were French undoubtedly----"
"I found them fighting against us."
Rapidly and in few words Marteau told the story of the night, touching
lightly upon his own part, but the Emperor was soldier enough to read
between the words of the narration and reconstruct the scene instantly.
He turned to one of his officers.
"Take those scoundrels out. Put them up against the wall and shoot
them out of hand. They disgrace the name of France. Bid the surgeons
of the command come here to look to the wounded."
"They are past hope, except the French boy, your Majesty," said Yeovil,
who having recovered his own consciousness speedily had been examining
them meanwhile. "I have some skill in wounds. One Cossack is already
dead. It would be a mercy to put that other out of his misery with
that horrible scythe slash."
"The Russian officer?"
"Gone, too."
"And who are you?"
"I am a barrister," answered the Englishman in bad but comprehensible
French.
"A man of the law. You look it not," said the Emperor, smiling faintly.
"Necessity makes us all resort to the sword," said Sir Gervaise,
looking at his bloody blade, for he had fought valiantly with the rest
and would have been killed but he had been knocked senseless with that
billet of wood which had hit him on the head and felled him to the
floor.
"You are, by your language, an Englishman."
"I am, and proud of it."
"The English," said Napoleon slowly, "have been my bitterest enemies."
"Pardon, Sire," said the Russian bluntly, "we children of the white
Czar will dispute that honor with them."
"And you sought to kill me?" said the Emperor, turning upon the other.
"You are a brave man," he added.
"And I would have done so but for----"
"Bah!" interrupted Napoleon contemptuously. "The bullet is not molded
that is destined for me. My career is not to be cut short by the hand
of any young boy who wears the uniform of the Russian guard. Silence,
monsieur! Take him prisoner. See that he be kept under close guard.
When we have taken Olsuvieff's division to-morrow and then Sacken's
there will be many of his comrades to bear him company to Paris. Did
any of the men outside escape?"
"No, Sire," answered General Maurice, entering the room just in time to
hear the question. "The wood around the château was completely filled
with my men. Those we have not killed here we have taken prisoner.
Most of them were shot down as they strove to break through."
"That is well," said the Emperor.
"And the convoy?" asked General Maurice.
"Detach a regiment to escort it back to Sézanne. Let it be distributed
to the regiments and divisions as they arrive."
"And those who have gone on ahead?"
"Their arms, equipment and provisions are in the hands of the
Prussians. We shall march immediately. As for you, mademoiselle, what
is your name?"
"I am the Comtesse Laure d'Aumenier."
"H'm, the daughter of the Comte Robert d'Aumenier, who made his
submission to the Empire and received back his estates, I believe?"
"The same, Sire."
"Where is he?"
"Dead, Sire, these two years."
"And you?"
"I went to my uncle in England."
"To the enemy!" exclaimed Napoleon sharply.
"To the enemy," answered the Countess, looking at him courageously.
"And you came back for what purpose?"
"The estates are to be sold. There were certain papers of which I
alone knew the hiding place. There was no way for me to reach them
save by the courtesy of the Czar Alexander. He sent me to
Field-Marshal Blücher with instructions to provide me with an escort to
this château. The Field-Marshal did so, and the rest you know."
"And you propose to sell estates that have been in the hands of the
family for so long a period? It seems to me that I visited them once
when I was a military student at Brienne. Was not your uncle there at
the time, an officer in command?"
"I have heard him say so."
"I remember him very well now."
"And he you, your Majesty."
"And he intends now to sell the estates?"
"He did, Sire, but now that there is a possibility of the re--of
the----"
"The return of the Bourbons," said Napoleon, divining her thought as
the Countess paused in confusion, "There is no possibility of that,
mademoiselle. In three weeks the armies opposing me will have been
hurled back beyond the frontier. Your family has forfeited its rights
to any consideration at my hands. Your uncle is an _emigré_ who has
never made his submission. I find you, a Frenchwoman, in the company
of my enemies. Your estates are forfeited. Major Marteau, I make you
Comte d'Aumenier. The domains are yours."
"I accept them, your Majesty."
"What! Is it possible----" cried the Countess Laure, her face flaming.
"Silence, mademoiselle. By the laws of war I could have you shot. It
would be a fine example. No Frenchman, however high in rank and
station, no Frenchwoman, however young or beautiful, can fight against
me and France with impunity. Have you anything to say why I should not
mete out to you this well-deserved punishment?"
"Nothing," said the young woman with proud disdain. "The revolution
has taken the lives of many of my people. I am not better than they.
You are the very spirit of the revolution incarnate, Sire, and----"
"Your Majesty," interposed General Maurice.
"Well, sir?" said Napoleon.
General Maurice, a famous light horseman, otherwise known as the Count
de Vivonne, was an old friend and a devoted follower of the Emperor.
He had interfered before on occasion between Napoleon and his victims.
He knew the Emperor thoroughly and loved him. He realized that it was
his time to interpose, or someone's, and he had intuition enough to
suspect that his interposition would be most welcome, that indeed
Napoleon was playing, as he sometimes loved to do, a little comedy.
With a wave of his hand the general checked Marteau, whom he knew
slightly, who had sprung forward to protest to the Emperor at the words
of the woman he loved.
"Allow me a word, Sire," asked the General with that exquisite mixture
of courtesy, deference and resolution which characterized his
intercourse with the Emperor.
"I am always glad to hear from you, my good Maurice," said the Emperor
familiarly. "What have you to say?"
"This young woman is no traitor to you or to France, Sire, however
strange her position."
"How do you make that out?" asked the Emperor, the flickering of a
smile playing about his lips.
"It was her hand that struck up the Russian's pistol so that the bullet
went there," the General of cavalry pointed upward a moment and then
his hand fell until his index finger was trained upon the Emperor's
heart, "instead of there," he added meaningly.
"Very good," said the Emperor graciously. "But had she not struck up
that hand it was in Marteau's heart that the bullet would have lodged,
not in mine, if I remember rightly."
"And if that gives me a claim, Sire, to your consideration----"
"Have I not rewarded you enough," asked the Emperor, "in adding the
official stamp of a patent to the nobility of heart which is already
yours and by giving you the forfeited lands of Aumenier to boot?"
"And I would give them all for the safety of the lady yonder, whose
family mine have served for eight hundred years, with whom I played
when a boy, and be content to follow your Majesty as the simple soldier
I have always been."
"Brave heart and true," said the Emperor, touched. "Mademoiselle, you
cannot go back to Blücher. Within two days his army will be no more.
I will give you a safe conduct. You can remain here for the night.
Couriers will be dispatched to Troyes and to Paris under escort in the
morning. They will take you there. You have friends there, I presume?"
"Many."
"You can remain there or, if opportunity arises, I will give orders to
have you safely conducted so you can go back to England."
"And me, Sire?" growled out Sir Gervaise Yeovil.
The Emperor laughed.
"I am too good a soldier to fight with men of the law," he said. "You
may go with your protégée and share her fortunes."
"I thank your Majesty," said the Englishman, touched in his blunt
nature by this extraordinary magnanimity. "I will report your
consideration to my king and his people and----"
"And say to them that I long for the moment when I can measure swords
with the Duke of Wellington."
"And may that moment come speedily," returned Sir Gervaise.
"As for the rest," said the Emperor, turning away in high good humor,
"Marteau, you have been continuously on service for two days and two
nights and you are wounded----"
"It is nothing."
"Remain here with old Bullet-Stopper, who, true to his name, has had
another touch of the enemy's lead. General Maurice, detail a score of
the weakest of your command, those slightly wounded, to whom a night's
rest would be useful. They shall remain here until the courier stops
for the lady and her English friend, and then under Marteau's command
rejoin me in the morning."
"Very good, Sire," said General Maurice, turning away.
"I thank your Majesty," said Marteau, "for all you have done for me,
and for the Comtesse d'Aumenier."
"And I thank the Emperor also," said the young woman, smiling at him.
"Your Majesty's generosity almost wins me to an imperial allegiance."
Napoleon laughed.
"Not even the Emperor," he said proudly, "is as black as he is painted
by traitors and the English, Mademoiselle!" he bowed abruptly but not
ungracefully. "Come, gentlemen," he said, turning on his heel, "we
must march."
CHAPTER XII
AN ALLIANCE DECLINED
As the Emperor left the room, followed by the officers and men, a
little silence fell over the three people remaining therein.
"Monsieur le Comte d'Aumenier!" exclaimed the Countess Laure, wonder,
derision and disdain in her voice. "Your château, your domain!"
She looked about the great hall and laughed scornfully. Young Marteau
turned crimson. He threw up his head proudly.
"Mademoiselle----" he began sternly, his voice full of indignant
protest and resentment.
"Don't be too hard on the lad, Countess," interposed the Englishman,
his interest aroused. "By gad, he saved your honor, your life, and----"
"And, if I mistake not, I repaid the obligation by saving his life
also, sir."
"And I recognize it, and am grateful, mademoiselle."
"I am ordered to report to you, sir," said a young man, coming into the
room followed by a file of dismounted soldiers, and relieving a
situation growing most tense.
"Very good," said Marteau, devoutly thankful for the interruption.
"You will dispose your men so as to guard the approaches of the château
at every hand. You will keep a strict lookout, and you will awaken me
at dawn. I think there is nothing to be apprehended from the enemy.
The advance of the Emperor will have cleared all this section of even
wandering troops of Cossacks by this time, but there are masterless men
abroad."
"I shall know how to deal with them," said the young officer, saluting.
"You will also send men to remove these dead bodies and clear up this
room. Take this poor lad"--pointing to Pierre--"and see that he is
cared for. You will find a place for him upstairs. Your regimental
surgeon----"
"Is attending to the wounded. I will see that the boy gets every care,
sir."
"And Bal-Arrêt?"
"His arm is dressed, and he is the admiration of the camp-fire."
"I suppose so."
"Any other orders, Major?"
"None; you may go."
"Mademoiselle," said Marteau, facing the Countess as the officer turned
away, his men taking the dead bodies and the wounded peasant with them,
"you wrong me terribly."
"By saving your life, pray?" she asked contemptuously.
"By--by--your----" he faltered and stopped.
"In what way, Monsieur le Comte?" interrupted the young woman, who knew
very well what the young man meant.
In her irritating use of his new-found title, and in the way in which
it fell from her lips, she cut him like a whip-lash, and she did it
deliberately, too--he, the Count, forsooth!
"Call me Marteau," he protested, stepping toward her, at which she fell
back a little. "Or, better still, as when I was a boy, your faithful
follower, Jean."
"If the Emperor has the power, he has made you a Count; if he has not,
you are not."
"What the Emperor makes me is of little consequence between us,
mademoiselle. It is what I am that counts."
"And you remain, then, just Jean Marteau, of the loyal Marteaux?"
"One does not wipe out the devotion of years in a moment. My father
served yours, your grandfather, your uncle, your father. I am
still"--he threw up his head proudly as he made the confession--"your
man."
"But the title----"
"What is a title? Your uncle is in England. He does not purpose to
come back to France unless he whom he calls his rightful king again
rules the land. Should that come to be, my poor patent of nobility
would not be worth the parchment upon which it was engrossed."
"And the lands?"
"In any case I would but hold them in trust for the Marquis----"
"My uncle is old, childless. I am the last of the long line."
"Then I will hold them for you, mademoiselle. They are yours. When
this war is over, and France is at peace once more, I will take my
father's place and keep them for you."
"I could not accept such a sacrifice."
"It would be no sacrifice."
"I repeat, I cannot consent to be under such obligation, even to you."
"There is a way----" began the young Frenchman softly, shooting a
meaning glance at the young woman.
"I do not understand," she faltered.
"I am peasant born," admitted Marteau, "but, though no gentle blood
flows through my veins, my family, I think, is as old as your own."
"It is so," agreed the Countess, trembling as she began to catch the
meaning. "Oh, monsieur, stop."
"As there has never a d'Aumenier failed to hold the château so there
has never failed a Marteau to follow him," went on the young man,
unheeding her protest.
"I care as little for distinctions of rank as any demoiselle of old
France, perhaps, but----"
"Mademoiselle is right. As for myself, I am a republican at heart,
although I follow the Emperor. I, too, care little for the
distinctions of rank, for titles, yet I have earned a title in the
service of the Emperor. Through him, even humble men rise high and go
far. Will you----"
"Monsieur, you must not go on!" cried the girl, "thrusting out her
hand, as if to check him.
"Pardon," said the young Frenchman resolutely. "Having gone thus far I
must go further. Humble as I am, obscure though I be, I have dared to
raise my eyes to heaven--to you, mademoiselle. In my boyhood days you
honored me with your friendship, your companionship. I have made
something of myself. If mademoiselle would only deign to---- It is
impossible that she should love me--it would be an ineffable
condescension--but is there not some merit in the thought that the last
survivors of the two lines should unite to----"
"Impossible!" cried the Countess, her face flushing. "My uncle would
never consent. In my veins is the oldest, the noblest blood of France.
Even I could not----"
"Be it so," said Marteau, paling, but standing very erect. "It is, of
course, impossible. There is not honor enough or merit enough in the
world," he went on bitterly, "to obliterate the difference in station
between us. The revolution, after all, changed little. Keep the
title, keep the estates, mademoiselle, I want them not," continued the
young soldier bitterly. "Having aspired to you, do you think these are
compensations?"
"You saved my life," said the girl falteringly.
"It was nothing. You did as much for me."
"And my honor," she added.
"I ask no reward."
"By gad!" said Yeovil at this juncture, "I'm damned if I see how you
can withstand him. He is a gallant lad. He has fought bravely and he
has pleaded nobly. You may not win the Countess--as a matter of fact
she is pledged to my son--but you deserve her. I've never been able to
understand any kind of women, much less Frenchwomen, saving your
presence, mademoiselle. Base-born you may be, Major Marteau, but I
know a gentleman when I see him, I flatter myself, and, damme, young
man, here's my hand. I can understand your Emperor better since he can
inspire the devotion of men like you."
The two men clasped hands. The Countess looked on. She stepped softly
nearer to them. She laid her hand on Marteau's shoulder.
"Monsieur--Jean," she said, and there was a long pause between the two
words, "I would that I could grant your request, but it is--you
see--you know I cannot. I am betrothed to Captain Yeovil, with my
uncle's consent, of course. I am a very unhappy woman," she ended,
although just what she meant by that last sentence she hardly knew.
"And this Captain Yeovil, he is a soldier?" asked Marteau.
"Under Wellington," answered the father.
"Now may God grant that I may meet him!"
"You'll find him a gallant officer," answered the sturdy old Englishman
proudly.
"When I think of his father I know that to be true," was the polite
rejoinder.
The little Countess sank down on the chair, buried her face in her
hands and burst into tears.
"Well, of all the----" began the Englishman, but the Frenchman checked
him.
"Mademoiselle," he said softly, "were every tear a diamond they could
not make for me so precious a diadem as they do when I think that you
weep for me. I wish you joy with your English captain. I am your
humble servant ever."
And Laure d'Aumenier felt very much comforted by those words. It was
absurd, inconceivable, impossible, of course, and yet no handsomer,
braver, truer, more considerate gentleman had ever crossed her horizon
than this descendant of an ancient line of self-respecting, honorable
yeomen. She contrasted him with Captain Yeovil, and the contrast was
not to Marteau's disadvantage! No, decidedly not!
CHAPTER XIII
THE THUNDERBOLT STROKE
On the tenth of February, 1814, for the first time in many days, the
sun shone brightly. Nevertheless there was little change in the
temperature; the thaw still prevailed. The sun's heat was not great
enough to dry the roads, nor was the weather sufficiently cold to
freeze them. As the Emperor wrote to his brother, with scarcely any
exaggeration, there was still six feet of mud on highways and by-paths.
Napoleon, by rapid marching at the head of Maurice's Squadrons d'Élite,
mounted grenadiers, chasseurs, hussars and dragoons, had easily
attained a position in front of the van of the army commanded by
Marmont, which had rested a few hours at St. Prix, where the road
crossed the Petit Morin on a bridge. His requisition on the peasantry
had been honored, and great numbers of fresh, vigorous draft horses had
been brought in from all sides. There was not much speed to be got out
of these farm animals, to be sure, but they were of prodigious
strength. The ordinary gun teams were relieved, and numbers of these
plow-horses attached to the limbers pulled the precious artillery
steadily toward the enemy.
Scouts had discovered the fact that Olsuvieff's division was preparing
breakfast on the low plateau upon which was situated the village of
Champaubert, which had been observed by Marteau and Bal-Arrêt.
Napoleon reconnoitered the place in person from the edge of the wood.
Nansouty's cavalry had earlier driven some Russian skirmishers out of
Baye, but Olsuvieff apparently had no conception of the fact that the
whole French army was hard by, and he had contented himself with
sending out a few scouts, who, unfortunately for him, scouted in the
wrong direction.
While waiting for the infantry under Marmont to come up, Napoleon sent
Nansouty's cavalry around to the left to head off Olsuvieff's advance
and interpose between him and the rear guard of Sacken's division.
Even the noise of the little battle--for the skirmish was a hot one--a
mile down the road, did not apprise the Russian of his danger, and it
was not until the long columns of the French came out of the wood and
deployed and until the guns were hauled into the clearing and wheeled
into action, that he awoke to the fact that an army was upon him and he
would have to fight for his life.
With his unerring genius Napoleon had struck at the key position, the
very center of Blücher's long drawn-out line. With but thirty thousand
men attacking eighty thousand he had so maneuvered as to be in
overwhelming force at the point of contact! In other words, he had got
there first with the most men. Blücher's army was separated into
detachments and stretched out over forty miles of roads.
Olsuvieff's division comprised five thousand men with twenty guns. At
first Napoleon could bring against him not many more than that number
of men and guns, to which must be added Nansouty's small cavalry
division. And Olsuvieff, with all the advantages of the position, made
a magnificent defense. As a defensive fighter the stubborn Russian
took a back seat for no soldier in Europe. But the most determined
resistance, the most magnificent courage, could not avail against
overwhelming numbers, especially directed and led by Napoleon in
person, for with every hour the numbers of the assailants were
increased by the arrival of fresh troops, while with every hour the
defense grew weaker through casualties.
Olsuvieff might have surrendered with honor at midday, but he was a
stubborn soldier, and he realized, moreover, that it was his duty to
hold Napoleon as long as possible. Even the most indifferent commander
could not fail to see the danger to Blücher's isolated corps. Couriers
broke through to the east to Sacken and Yorck, who together had over
thirty-five thousand men under their command, and to the west to
Blücher, with as many more men, telling all these commanders of the
extreme peril of the center and of the frightfully dangerous situation
in which their carelessness and the ability of their great enemy had
involved them. The noise of the firing, too, was carried far and wide
over the broad open fields and cultivated farms of the rolling prairie
of Champagne.
Blücher, however, could not credit the intelligence. He believed it
impossible for Napoleon to have escaped from Schwarzenberg. He could
not conceive that Napoleon would leave the Austrians unopposed to march
to Paris if they would. He could not think that even Napoleon would
venture to attack eighty thousand men with thirty, and, if he did, he
reasoned that Sacken and Yorck and Olsuvieff, singly or in combination,
were easily a match for him. The messengers must surely be mistaken.
This could only be a raid, a desperate stroke of some corps or
division. Therefore, he halted and then drew back and concentrated on
his rear guard waiting for further news.
Sacken and Yorck were nearer the fighting. They could hear and see for
themselves. They at once gave over the pursuit of Macdonald and
retraced their steps. Olsuvieff made good his defense until nightfall,
when the survivors gave up the battle. Fifteen hundred men of his
brave division had been killed on the plateau. As many more were
wounded and captured, most of whom subsequently died, and there were
about two thousand unhurt prisoners. Their ammunition was exhausted.
They were worn out. They were overwhelmed by massed charges at last.
Blücher's line was pierced, his center crushed, and one of the finest
divisions of his army was eliminated.
In the wagon train recaptured at Aumenier had been found arms and
provisions and ammunition. Another Prussian wagon train, blundering
along the road, was seized by Maurice's cavalry, which had been sent
scouting to the eastward. From the Russian camp the starving French
had got food, more arms and clothing. The dead were quickly despoiled,
even the living were forced to contribute to the comfort of their
conquerors. It was night before the last French division got up from
Sézanne, but there was enough food and weapons for all.
A new spirit had come over that army. What had seemed to them a
purposeless, ghastly march through the mud was now realized to be one
of the most brilliant manoeuvres Napoleon had ever undertaken. The
conscripts, the raw boys, the National Guards, many of whom had been in
action for the first time that day, were filled with incredible
enthusiasm. They were ready for anything.
But the army must have rest. It must be permitted to sleep the night.
Accordingly the divisions were disposed in the fields. Those who had
fought hardest were given quarters in the village; the next were placed
in the captured Russian camp; the others made themselves as comfortable
as they could around huge fires. The poor prisoners had little or
nothing. The ragged French were at least better clothed than they were
in the morning. The defenseless had arms and the whole army had been
fed. There was wine, too; the Russian commissariat was a liberal one.
There was much laughter and jovialness in the camps that night. Of
course, the guard and the other veterans expected nothing else, but to
the youngsters the brilliant stroke of Napoleon was a revelation.
As the little Emperor rode from division to division, sometimes
dismounting and walking through the camps on foot, he was received with
such acclaim as reminded him of the old days in Italy. And, indeed,
the brief campaign which he had so brilliantly inaugurated can be
favorably compared to that famous Italian adventure, or to any other
short series of consecutive military exploits in the whole history of
war.
They said that the Emperor had hesitated and lost his great opportunity
at Borodino. They said that he had frightfully miscalculated at
Moscow, that his judgment had been grievously at fault in the whole
Russian campaign. They said that he had sat idle during a long day
when the fortunes of his empire might have been settled at Bautzen.
They said that, overcome by physical weariness, he had failed to grasp
his great opportunity after the victory at Dresden. They said that
Leipsic and the battles that preceded it showed that he had lost the
ability to see things with a soldier's eye. They declared that he made
pictures and presented them to himself as facts; that he thought as an
Emperor, not as a Captain. They said that in this very campaign in
France, the same imperial obsession had taken such hold upon him that
in striving to retain everything from Holland to the end of the Italian
peninsula he stood to lose everything. They said that, if he had
concentrated all his armies, withdrawn them from outlying dependencies,
he could have overwhelmed Blücher and Schwarzenberg, the Czar
Alexander, the Emperor Francis and King William, and that, having
hurled them beyond the Rhine, these provinces in dispute would have
fallen to his hand again. They said that his practical omnipotence had
blinded his judgment.
Those things may be true. But, whether they be true or not, no man
ever showed a finer strategic grasp of a situation, no man ever
displayed more tactical ability on a given field, no man ever conducted
a series of more brilliant enterprises, no man ever utilized a small,
compact, well-handled force opposed to at least two and a half times
its number, no man ever conducted a campaign which stood higher from a
professional point of view than this one which began with the march
from Nogent and the destruction at Champaubert.
There was no rest for Napoleon that night. Undoubtedly he was not now
the man he had been. Paralyzing physical disabilities before and after
interfered with his movements. The enormous strains to which he had
subjected his body and brain sometimes resulted in periods of mental
blindness and physical prostration. It was whispered that a strange
malady--was it some form of epilepsy?--sometimes overcame the Emperor
so that his faculties and abilities were in abeyance for hours. No man
had ever abused such wonderful mental and physical gifts as he
originally had possessed by subjecting them to such absolutely
impossible strains as he, and Nature was having her revenge. But for
that week in February and for a time thereafter there was a strange and
marvelous return of the Emperor's physical powers.
He had sustained more fatigue than any man in the army, because to all
of the personal sufferings of the march in the long day and the
sleepless night and the conduct of the battle had been added
responsibility, but he was as fresh as a boy. His pale cheek showed
rare color; his eyes sparkled; his voice was clear and sharp. The
nervous twitching of his mouth ceased. The gray look vanished. He was
once more the boyish Captain of the Army of Italy, at whom the huge
grenadiers laughed and the gray-headed veterans marveled.
The Emperor's scouts had been hard at work during the day. They were
constantly coming and going at his headquarters at Champaubert with
detailed accounts of the situation of the Russians and the Prussians.
The Emperor had a momentous decision to make. From the position he had
gained it was equally as easy for him to strike east as to strike west.
He decided at last to strike west, realizing that no captain, much less
fiery old Blücher, without an absolute forfeiture of his reputation as
a soldier could afford to leave his van unsupported, but that the
Prussian Field Marshal must advance to its support. If the Emperor's
plans worked out, he could destroy that van, and then turn back and
mete out the same fate to the main body coming to its rescue.
Just about ten miles away to the westward, on the main road to Paris by
way of La Ferte-sous-Jouarre, lay the village of Montmirail. As many
miles beyond Montmirail, on the same Paris road, Sacken, with twenty
thousand men, had been advancing. From Montmirail a road led northward
to Château Thierry and the crossing of the Marne, behind which
Macdonald had been driven by Yorck, with perhaps fifteen thousand more.
The Emperor decided to seize Montmirail, throw out a corps to hold back
Yorck on the northern road, while he crushed Sacken on the other with
the remainder of the army, except one corps, which he would leave at
Champaubert to delay Blücher's advance. These army corps were in
reality nothing more than weak divisions, less than seven thousand
strong.
Early in the afternoon Marteau, with old Bullet-Stopper and the little
squadron of Maurice's cavalry, had rejoined the Emperor. He had been
greatly refreshed by his night's sleep. He had taken advantage of the
early hours of the morning to bury his father and sister, saying such
prayers as he could remember, in default of the parish priest, who had
been murdered. The Emperor having sent a courier with an escort back
to Nogent, the Countess Laure and her English friend had elected to go
with them. They feared to be left alone in the château all day, in the
disturbed state of the country, and it was easier, perhaps, to reach
Paris from Nogent by way of the Seine than by going direct from
Sézanne. Marteau had approved of their decision.
The parting between the young people had been as formal as possible.
The Englishman, on the contrary, with true British hospitality, had
said that if peace ever came he would indeed be glad to welcome him at
his home in England. Marteau had sworn to hold the château and its
land in trust for the Countess, although she protested she would not
hear of anything of the kind. And then he had bade her farewell. He
had arrived in time to take part in the hard fighting at the close of
the day, and had been busy during the early part of the night in
carrying messages and resuming his duties at headquarters.
At two o'clock in the morning Napoleon threw himself down on a
peasant's bed in a hut and slept until four. At that hour he awakened
and summoned the officer on duty. Marteau presented himself. The
Emperor, as refreshed by his two hours of sleep as if he had spent the
night in a comfortable bed, addressed the young man familiarly. None
could unbend better than he.
"My good Marteau," he began. "But stop--Monsieur le Comte
d'Aumenier"--he smiled--"I have not forgot. Berthier has orders to
send to Paris to have your patent of nobility made out and to see that
the confiscated Aumenier lands are transferred to you."
"I thank your Majesty," said the young aide, deeming it wiser to say
nothing of his ultimate intentions regarding the patent of nobility and
the estates.
"It would be a fine thing," said the Emperor, "if you and that girl
should come together. She is the last of her line, I understand, save
her old uncle in England, who is unmarried and childless. Is it not
so?"
"That is true, Sire."
"Well, you couldn't do better. She is a woman of spirit and
resolution. Her prompt action in the château last night showed it. I
commend her to your consideration. Were I your age and in your station
I should like nothing better."
"Your Majesty anticipated my desire, my own proposition, in fact."
"What? You struck while you had the opportunity? That was well."
"But, unlike you, Sire, I struck unavailingly."
"The lady refused?"
"Positively. She is of the oldest family in France, while I----"
"Marteau," said the Emperor sharply, "no more of that. If you cannot
be a descendant, be an ancestor. Look at me. My family began at
Montemotte, and to-day the mother of my son is a Hapsburg!"
"But she is engaged to the son of that Englishman, Sire."
"Bah, what of that? Engagements can be broken, marriages even
dissolved. The Holy Father at Rome will refuse me nothing. When I
have beaten the allies I will take your affair in hand. There are few
powers in Europe that will turn a deaf ear to the suggestions of the
Emperor of the French, believe me. The lady shall be yours."
"Your Majesty's power," said the young officer dubiously, "does not
extend to women's hearts."
"Does it not?" laughed the Emperor grimly. "You shall see. My word
shall be law again everywhere. With my favor you will go far. There
are no patents of nobility that stand higher than mine, for mine are
based on my recognition of merit alone, not on accident of birth. You
served me well, and you shall see that I am not ungrateful. Meanwhile,
to you a new duty is assigned."
"I welcome it gladly."
Napoleon took an order prepared the night before from a table.
"This to General Nansouty. I want him to march at once. Read it. You
will see," he continued, "that Nansouty's cavalry is to hold Sacken in
check until I have seized Montmirail. He has guns with him. Let him
deploy, attack vigorously. Keep th
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