I spring down from my horse and push back the snowy locks, and with a shriek of horror I recognize the friend of my heart,—General d'Auvergne. I lift him in my arms, and search for the wound. Alas! a grapeshot had torn through his chest, and cut asunder that noble heart whose every beat was honor. Though still warm, no ray of life remained: the hand I had so often grasped in friendship, I wrung now in the last energy of despair, and fell upon the corpse in the agony of my grief.
The night was falling fast. All was still around me; none remained near; the village was deserted. The deafening din of the cannonade continued, and at times some straggling shot crashed through the crumbling walls, and brought them thundering to the earth; but all had fled. By the pale crescent of a new moon I dug a grave beneath the ruined wall of the farmhouse. The labor was long and tedious; but my breaking heart took no note of time. My task completed, I sat down beside the grave, and taking his now cold hand in mine, pressed it to my lips. Oh, could I have shared that narrow bed of clay, what rapture would it have brought to my sorrowing soul! I lifted the body and laid it gently in the earth; and as I arose, I found that something had entangled itself in my uniform, and held me. It seemed a locket, which he wore by a ribbon round his neck. I detached it from its place, and put it in my bosom. One lock of the snowy hair I severed from his noble head, and then covered up the grave. “Adieu forever!” I muttered, as I wandered from the spot.
It was the death of a true D'Auvergne,—“on the field of battle!”
Ere I left the village, a shower of shells was thrown into it from the French lines, and in a few minutes the whole blazed up in a red flame, and threw a wide glare over the battlefield. Spurring my horse to his speed, I galloped onward, and now discovered that our troops were retiring in all haste. The Allies had won the battle, and we were falling back on Brienne.
Leaving seventy-three guns in the hands of the enemy, above one thousand prisoners, and six thousand killed in battle, Napoleon drew off his shattered forces, and marched through the long darkness of a winter's night. Thus ended the battle of Arcis-sur-Aube,—the most fatal for the hopes of the Emperor since the dreadful day of Leipzic.
From that hour Fortune seemed to frown on those whose arms she had so often crowned with victory; and he himself, the mighty leader of so many conquering hosts, stood at the window of the château at Brienne the whole night long, dreading lest the enemy should be on his track. He whose battles were wont to be the ovations of a conqueror, now beheld with joy his masses retiring unpursued.
Why should I dwell on a career of disaster, or linger on the expiring moments of a mighty Empire? Of what avail now are the reinforcements which arrived to our aid,—the veteran legions of the Peninsula? The cry is ever, “Too late! too late!” Dreadful words, heard at every moment! sad omens of an army devoted and despairing!
From Brienne we retreat to Troyes; from thence to Bar-sur-Aube,—ever nearer and nearer to that capital to which the Allies tend with wild shouts of triumph. On the last day of February our headquarters are at Nogent, not thirty leagues from Paris,—Nogent, with the great forest of Fontainebleau on its left; and Meaux, the ancient bishopric of the Monarchy, on its right; and behind that screen, Paris!
Leaving Bourmont in command of the line which holds the Austrians in check, the Emperor himself hastens to oppose Blücher,—the most intrepid and the most daring of all his enemies. A cross-march in the depth of winter, with the ground covered with half-frozen snow, will bring him on the flank of the Prussian army. It is dared! Dangers and difficulties beset every step; the artillery are almost lost, the cavalry exhausted. But the cry of “The enemy!” rouses every energy: they debouch on the plain of Champ-Aubert, to fall on the moving column of the Russians under Alsufief. Glorious stroke of fate! Victory again caresses the spoiled child of fortune: the enemy is routed, and retires on Montmirail and Châlons. The advanced army of the Prussians hear the cannonade, and fall back to support the Allies on Montmirail. But the Emperor already awaits them with the battalions of the Old Guard, and another great battle ends in victory. Areola and Rivoli were again remembered, and recalled by victories not less glorious; and once more hope returned to the ranks it seemed to have quitted forever. Another dreadful blow is aimed at Blucher's columns; Marmont attacks them at Vaux-Champs, and the army of Silesia falls back beaten.
And now the Emperor hastens towards Nogent, where he has left Bourmont in front of the Austrians. “Too late! too late!” is again the cry,—the columns of Oudinot and Victor are already in retreat. Schwartzenberg, with a force triple their own, advances on the plains of the Seine; the Cossacks bivouac in the forest of Fontainebleau. Staff-officers hurry onward with the news that the Emperor is approaching; the victorious army which had subdued Blucher is on the march, reinforced by the veteran cavalry of Spain and the tried legions of the Peninsula. They halt, and form in battle. The Allies arrest their steps at Nangis, and again are beaten: Nangis becomes another name of glory to the ears of Frenchmen.
Let me rest one instant in this rapid recital of a week whose great deeds not even Napoleon's life can show the equal of,—the last flash of the lamp of glory ere it darkened forever.
Three days had elapsed from the sad hour in which I laid my dearest friend in his grave, ere I opened the locket I had taken from his bosom. The wild work of war mingled its mad excitement in my brain with thoughts of deep sorrow; and I lived in a kind of fevered dream, and hurried from the affliction which beset me into the torrent of danger.
The gambler who cares not to win rarely loses, so he that seeks death in battle comes unscathed through every danger. Each day I threw myself headlong into some post where escape seemed scarcely possible; but recklessness has its own armor of safety. On the field of Montmirail I was reported to the Emperor; and for an attack on the Austrian rearguard at Melun made colonel of a cuirassier regiment on the field of battle. Such promotions rained on every side: hundreds were falling each day; many regiments were commanded by officers of twenty-three or twenty-four years of age. Few expected to carry their new epaulettes beyond the engagement they gained them in; none believed the Empire itself could survive the struggle. Each played for a mighty stake; few cared to outlive the game itself. The Emperor showered down favors on the heads which each battlefield laid low.
It was on the return from Melun I first opened the locket, which I continued to wear around my neck. In the full expansion of a momentary triumph to see myself at the head of a regiment, I thought of him who would have participated in my pride. I was sitting in the doorway of a little cabaret on the roadside, my squadrons picketed around me, for a brief halt; and as my thoughts recurred to the brave D'Auvergne, I withdrew the locket from my bosom. It was a small oval case of gold, opening by a spring. I touched this, and as I did so, the locket sprang open, and displayed before me a miniature of Marie de Meudon. Yes! beautiful as I had seen her in the forest of Versailles: her dark hair clustering around her noble brow,—and her eyes, so full of tender loveliness, shadowed by their deep fringes,—were there as I remembered them; the lips were half parted, as though the artist had caught the speaking expression,—and as-I gazed, I could fancy that voice, so musically sweet, still ringing in my ears. I could not look on it enough: the features recalled the scenes when first I met her; and the strong current of love, against which so long I struggled and contended, flowed on with tenfold force once more. Should we ever meet again,—and how? were the questions which rushed to my mind, and to which hope and fear dictated the replies.
The locket was a present from the Empress to the general,—at least, so I interpreted an inscription on the back; and this—shall I confess it?—brought pleasure to my heart. Like one whose bosom bore some wondrous amulet, some charm against the approach of danger, I now rode at the head of my gallant band. Life had grown dearer to me, without death becoming more dreaded. Her image next my heart made me feel as if I should combat beneath her very eyes, and I burned to acquit myself as became one who loved her. A wild, half frantic joy animated me as I went, and was caught by the gay companions around me.
At midnight a despatch reached me, ordering me to hasten forward by a forced march to Montereau, the bridge of which town was a post of the greatest importance, and must be held against the Austrians till Victor could come up. We lost not a moment. It was a calm frosty night, with a bright moon, and we hastened along without halting. About an hour before daybreak we were met by a cavalry patrol, who informed us that Gérard and Victor had both arrived, but too late: Montereau was held by the Wurtemberg troops, who garrisoned the village, and defended the bridge with a strong force of artillery; twice the French troops had been beaten back with tremendous loss, and all looked for the morrow to renew the encounter. We continued our journey; and, as the sun was rising, discovered, at a distance on the road beside the river, the mass of an infantry column: it was the Emperor himself, come up with the Guard, to attack the position.
Already the preparations for a fierce assault were in progress. A battery of twelve guns was posted on a height to command the bridge; another, somewhat more distant, overlooked the village itself. Different bodies of infantry and cavalry were disposed wherever shelter presented itself, and ready for the command to move forward. The approach to the bridge was by a wide road, which lay for some distance along the river bank; and this was deeply channelled by the enemy's artillery, which, stationed on and above the bridge, seemed to defy any attempt to advance.
Never, indeed, did an enterprise seem more full of danger. Every house which looked on the bridge was crenelated for small-arms, and garrisoned by sharpshooters,—the fierce Jager of Germany, whose rifles are the boast of the Vaterland. Cannon bristled along the heights; their wide mouths pointed to that devoted spot, already the grave of hundreds. Withdrawn under cover of a steep hill, my regiment was halted, with two other heavy cavalry corps, awaiting orders; and from the crest of the ridge I could observe the first movements of the fight.
As usual, a fierce cannonade was opened from either side; which, directed mainly against the artillery itself, merely resulted in dismantling a stray battery here and there, without further damage. At last the hoarse roll of a drum was heard, and the head of an infantry column was seen advancing up the road. They passed beneath a rock on which a little group of officers were standing, and as they went a cheer of “Vive l'Empereur!” broke from them. I strained my eyes towards the place, for now I knew the Emperor himself was there. I could not, however, detect him in the crowd, who all waved their hats in encouragement to the troops.
On they went, descending a steep declivity of the highroad to the bridge. Suddenly the cannonade redoubles from the side of the enemy; the shot whistles through the air, while ten thousand muskets peal forth together. I rivet my eyes to watch the column. But what is my horror to perceive that none appear upon the ridge! The masses move up; they mount the ascent; they disappear behind it; and then are lost to sight forever. Not one escapes the dreadful havoc of the guns, which from a distance of less than two hundred yards enfilades the bridge.
But still they moved up. I could hear, from where ï lay, the commands of the officers, as they gave the word to their companies: no fear nor hesitation,—there they went to death; in less than fifteen minutes twelve hundred fell, dead or wounded. And at last the signal to fall back was given, and the shattered fragment of a column reeled back behind the ridge. Again the cannonade opened, and increasing on both sides, was maintained for above an hour without intermission. During this, our guns did tremendous execution on the village, but without effecting anything of importance respecting the bridge.
The Grenadiers of the Guard had reached the scene of combat, by forced marches, from Nangis; and after a brief time to recruit their strength, were now ordered up. What a splendid force that massive column, conspicuous by their scarlet shoulder-knots and tall shakos of black bearskin! with what confidence they move! They halt beneath the rock. The Emperor is there too. And see! the officer who stands beside him descends from the height, and puts himself at the head of the column: it is Guyot, the colonel of the battalion; he waves his plumed hat in answer to the Emperor,—that salute is the last he shall ever give on earth.
The drums roll out; but the hoarse shout of “En avant!” drowns their tumult. On they rush; they are over the height; they disappear down the descent. And see! there they are on the bridge! “Vive la Garde!” shouted ten thousand of their comrades, who watch them from the heights; “Vive la Garde!” is echoed from the tall cliffs beyond the river. The column moves on, and already reaches the middle of the bridge, when eighteen guns throw their fire into it: the blue smoke rolls down the rocky heights and settles on the bridge, broken here and there by flashes, like the forked gleam of lightning; the cloud passes oyer; the bridge is empty, save of dead and dying: the Grenadiers of the Guard are no more!
“What heart is his who gives his fellow-men to death like this!” was my exclamation as I witnessed this terrible struggle.
“The Cuirassiers and Carbineers of the Guard to form by threes in column of attack!” shouted an aide-de-camp, as he rode up to where I lay. And no more thought had I of his motives, who now opened the path of glory to myself.
The squadrons were arrayed under cover of the ridge; the shot and shells from the enemy's batteries flew thickly over us,—a presage of the storm we were about to meet. The order to mount was given; and as the men sprang into their saddles, a group of horsemen galloped rapidly round the angle of the cliff, and approached. One glance showed me it was the Emperor and his staff.
“Cuirassiers of the Guard,” said he, as with raised chapeau he saluted his brave followers, “I have ordered two battalions to carry that bridge; they have failed. Let those who never fail advance to the storm. Montereau shall be inscribed on your helmets, men, when I see you on yonder heights. Go forward!”
“Forward! forward!” shouted the mailed ranks, half maddened by the exciting presence of Napoleon.
The force was formed in four separate columns of attack: the First Cuirassiers leading; followed by the Carbineers of the Guard; then my own regiment; and lastly, the Fourth, the corps of poor Pioche. What would I have given to know he was there! But there was not time for such inquiry now. The squadrons were ready awaiting the moment to dash on.
A loud detonation of nigh twenty guns shook the earth; and in the smoke that rolled from them the bridge was concealed from view. A trumpet sounded, and the cry of “Charge!” followed. The mass sprang forth. What a cheer was theirs as they swept past! The cannonade opens again; the whole ground trembles. The musketry follows; and the clatter of a thousand sabres mingles with the war-cries of the combatants. It is but brief,—the tumult is already subsiding.
And now comes the order for the carbineers to move up; the cuirassiers have been cut to pieces. A few, mangled and bleeding, have reeled back behind the hill; but the regiment is gone!
“Where are the troops of Wagram and Eylau?” said the Emperor, in bitterness, as he saw the one broken squadron, sole remnant of a gallant corps, reeling, bloodstained and dying, to the rear. “Where is that cavalry that carried the Russian battery at Moskowa? You are not what you once were!”
This cruel taunt, at the very moment when the earth was steeped in the blood of his brave soldiers, was heard in mournful silence. None spoke a word, but with clenched lip and clasped hand sat waiting the command to charge. It came; but no cheer followed. The carbineers dashed on, prepared to die: what death so dreadful as the cold irony of Napoleon!
“En avant! cuirassiers of the Tenth,” called out the Emperor, as the last squadrons of the carbineers went by, “support your comrades! Follow up there, men of the Fourth! I must have that bridge.”
And now the whole line moved up. As we turned the cliff in full trot, the scene of combat lay before us: the terrible bridge now actually choked up with dead and wounded, the very battlements strewn with corpses. In an instant the carbineers were upon it; and struggling through the mass of carnage, they rode onward. Like men goaded to despair, they pressed on, and actually reached the archway beyond, which, defended by a strong gate, closed up the way. Whole files now fell at every discharge; but others took their places, to fall as rapidly beneath the murderous musketry.
“A petard to the gate!” is now the cry,—“a petard, and the bridge is won!”
Quick as lightning, four sappers of the Guard rush across the road and gain the bridge. They carry some thing between them, but soon are lost in the dense masses of the horse. The enemy's fire redoubles; the bridge crashes beneath the cannonade, when a loud shout is raised,—
“Let the cavalry fall back!”
A cheer of triumph breaks from the town as they behold the retiring squadrons; they know not that the petard is now attached to the gate, and that the horsemen are merely withdrawn for the explosion.
The bridge is cleared, and every eye is turned to watch the discharge which shall break the strong door, and leave the passage open. But unhappily the fuze has missed, and the great engine lies inert and inactive. What is to be done? The cavalry cannot venture to approach the spot, which at any moment may explode with ruin on every side; and thus the bridge is rendered impregnable by our own fault.
“Fatality upon fatality!” is the exclamation of Napoleon, as he heard the tidings. “This to the man who puts a match to the fuze!” said he, as he detaches the great cross of the Legion from his breast, and holds it aloft.
With one spring I jump from my saddle, and dash at the burning match a gunner is holding near me. A rush is made by several others; but I am fleetest of foot, and before they reach the road I am on the bridge. The enemy has not seen me, and I am half-way across before a shot is aimed at me. Even then a surprise seems to arrest their fire, for it is a single ball whizzes past. I see the train; I kneel down; the fuze is faint, and I stoop to blow it; and then my action is perceived, and a shattering volley sweeps the bridge. The high projecting parapet protects me, and I am unhurt. But the fuze will not take: horrible moment of agonizing suspense,—the powder is clotted with blood, and will not ignite! I remember that my pistols are in my belt, and detaching one, I draw the charge, and scatter the fresh powder along the line. My shelter still saves me, though the balls are crashing like hail around me. It takes, it takes! the powder spits and flashes, and a loud cry from my comrades bursts out, “Come back! come back!”
Forgetting everything in the intense anxiety of the moment, I spring to my legs; but scarce is my head above the parapet when a bullet strikes me in the chest. I fall covered with blood.
“Save him! save him!” is the cry of a thousand voices; and a rush is made upon the bridge. The musketry opens on these brave fellows, and they fall back wounded and discouraged.
Crouching beneath the parapet, I try to stanch my wound; but the blood is gushing in torrents, my senses are reeling, the objects around grow dimmer, the noise seems fainter. But suddenly I feel a hand upon my neck, and at the same instant a flask is pressed to my lips. I drink, and the wine rallies me; the bleeding is stopped. My eyes open again; and dare I trust their evidence? Who is it that now shelters beneath the parapet beside me? Minette, the vivandière! her handsome face flushed, her eyes wild with excitement, and her brown hair in great tangled masses on her back and shoulders.
“Minette, is it indeed thee?” said I, pressing her hand to my lips.
“I knew you at the head of your regiment some days ago, and I thought we should meet ere long. But lie still; we are safe here. The fire slackens too; they have fallen back since the gate was forced.”
“Is the gate forced, Minette?”
“Ay, the petard has done its work; but the columns are not come up. Lie still till they pass.”
“Dear, dear girl! what a brave heart is thine!” said I, gazing on her beautiful features, tenfold handsomer from the expression which her heroism had lent them.
“You would surely adventure as much for me,” said she, half-timidly, as she pressed her handkerchief against the wound, which still oozed blood.
The action entangled her fingers in a ribbon. She tried to extricate them; and the locket fell out, opening by accident at the same moment. With a convulsive energy she clasped the miniature in both hands, and riveted her eyes upon it. The look was wild as that of madness itself, and her features grew stiff as she gazed, while the pallor of death overspread them. It was scarce the action of a second; in another, she flung back the picture from her and sprang to her feet. One glance she gave me, fleeting as the lightning flash, but how full of storied sorrow!
The moment after she was in the middle of the bridge. She waved her cap wildly above her head, and beckoned to the column to come on. A cheer answered her. The mass rushed forward; the fire again pealed forth; a shriek pierced the din of all the battle, and the leading files halt. Four grenadiers fall back to the rear, carrying a body between them: it is the corpse of Minette the vivandière, who has received her death-wound!
The same evening saw me the occupant of a bed in the ambulance of the Guard. Dreadful as the suffering of my wound was, I carried a deeper one within my heart.
“The Emperor has given you his own cross of the Legion, sir,” said the surgeon, endeavoring to rally me from a dejection whose source he knew not.
“He has made him a general of brigade, too,” said a voice behind him.
It was General Letort who spoke; he had that moment come from the Emperor with the tidings. I buried my head beneath my hands, and felt as though my heart was bursting.
“That was a gallant girl, that vivandière,” said the rough old general; “she must have had a soldier's heart within that corsage. Parbleu! I'd rather not have another such in my brigade, though, after what happened this evening.”
“What is it you speak of?” said I, faintly.
“They gave her a military funeral this evening,—the Fourth Cuirassiers. The Emperor gave his permission, and sent General Degeon of the staff to be present. And when they placed her in the grave, one of the soldiers,—a corporal, I believe,—kneeled down to kiss her before they covered in the earth; and when he had done so, he lay slowly down on his face on the grass. 'He has fainted,' said one of his comrades; and they turned him on his back. Morbleu! it was worse than that: he was stone dead,—one of the very finest fellows of the regiment!”
“Yes, yes! I know him,” muttered I, endeavoring to smother my emotion.
The general looked at me as if my mind was wandering, and briefly added,—
“And so they laid them in the same grave, and the same fusillade gave the last honors to both.”
“Your story has affected my patient overmuch, General,” said the doctor; “you must leave him to himself for some time.”
An order from Berthier, written at the command of the Emperor, admitted me into the ancient Palace of Fontainebleau, where I lay for upwards of two months under my wound. Twice had fever nearly brought me to the grave; but youth and unimpaired health succored me, and I rallied through all. A surgeon of the staff accompanied me, and by his kind companionship, not less than by his skill, did I recover from an illness where sorrow had made an iron inroad not less deep than disease.
In my little chamber, which looked out upon the courtyard of the Palace, I passed my days, thinking over the past and all its vicissitudes. Each day we learned some intelligence either from the seat of war or from Paris: defeat in one, treason and disaffection in the other, were rapidly hastening the downfall of the mightiest Empire the genius of man had ever constructed. Champ-Aubert, Montmirail, and Montereau, great victories as they were, retarded not the current of events. “The week of glory” brought not hope to a cause predestined to ruin.
It was the latter end of March. For some days previous the surgeon had left me to visit an outpost ambulance near Melun, and I was alone. My strength, however, enabled me to sit up at my window; and even in this slight pleasure my wearied senses found enjoyment, after the tedious hours of a sickbed. The evening was calm, and for the season mild and summerlike. The shrubs were putting forth their first leaves, and around the marble fountains the spring flowers were already showing signs of blossom. The setting sun made the tall shadows of the ancient beech-trees stretch across the wide court, where all was still as at midnight. No inhabitant of the Palace was about; not a servant moved, not a footstep was heard.
It was a moment of such perfect stillness as leads the mind to reverie; and my thoughts wandered away to that distant time when gay cavaliers and stately dames trod those spacious terraces,—when tales of chivalry and love mingled with the plashing sounds of those bright fountains, and the fair moon looked down on more lovely forms than even those graceful marbles around. I fancied the time when the horn of the chasseur was heard-echoing through those vast courts, its last notes lost in the merry voices of the cortege round the monarch. And then I called up the brilliant group, with caracoling steeds and gay housings, proudly advancing up that great avenue to the royal entrance, and pictured the ancient ceremonial that awaited his coming,—the descendant of a long line of kings. The frank and kingly Francis, the valiant Henry the Fourth, the “Grand Monarch” himself,—all passed in review before my mind as once they lived, and moved, and spoke in that stately pile.
The sun had set: the mingled shadows threw their gloom over the wide court, and one wing of the Palace was in' deep shade, when suddenly I heard the roll of wheels and the tramp of horses on the distant road. I listened attentively. They were coming near; I could hear the tread of many together; and my practised ear could detect the clank of dragoons, as their sabres and sabretasches jingled against the horses' flanks. “Some hurried news from the Emperor,” thought I; “perhaps some marshal wounded, and about to be conveyed to the Palace.” The same instant the guard at the distant entrance beat to arms, and an equipage drawn by six horses dashed in at full gallop; a second followed as fast, with a peloton of dragoons at the side. My anxiety increased. “What if it were the Emperor himself!” thought I. But as the idea flashed across me, it yielded at once on seeing that the carriages did not draw up at the grand stair, but passed on to a low and private door at the distant wing of the Palace.
The bustle of the cortege arriving was but a moment's work. The carriages moved rapidly away, the dragoons disappeared, and all was as still as before, leaving me to ponder over the whole, and actually ask myself could it have been reality? I opened my door to listen; but not a sound awoke the echo of the long corridors. One could have fancied that no living thing was beneath that wide roof, so silent was all around.
A strange feeling of anxiety,—the dread of something undefined, I knew not what, or whence coming,—was over me, and my nerves, long irritable from illness, became now jarringly sensitive, and banished all thought of sleep. Wild fancies and incoherent ideas crossed my mind, and made me restless and uneasy. I felt, too, as if the night were unusually close and sultry, and I opened my window to admit the air. Scarcely had I drawn the curtain aside, when my eye rested on a long line of light, that, issuing from a window on the ground-floor of the Palace, threw its bright gleam far across the courtyard.
It was in the same wing where the carriages drew up. It must be so; some officer of rank, wounded in a late battle, was brought there. “Poor fellow!” thought I; “what suffering may he be enduring amid all the peace-fulness and calm of this tranquil spot! Who can it be?” was the ever-recurring question to my mind; for my impression had already strengthened itself to a conviction.
The hours went on; the light shone steadily as at first, and the stillness was unbroken. Wearied with thinking, and half forgetful of my weakness, I tottered along the corridor, descended the grand stair, and passed out into the court. How refreshing did the night air feel! how sweet the fair odors of the spring, as, wafted by the motion of the jet d'eau, they were diffused around! The first steps of recovery from severe sickness have a strange thrill of youthfulness about them. Our senses seem once more to revel in the simple enjoyments of early days, and to feel that their greatest delight lies in the associations which gave pleasure to childhood. Weaned from the world's contentions, we seem to have been lifted for the time above the meaner cares and ambitions of life, and love to linger a little longer in that ideal state of happiness calm thoughts bestow; and thus the interval that brings back health to the body restores freshness to the heart, and purified in thought, we come forth hoping for better things, and striving for them with all the generous ardor of early years. How happy was I as I wandered in that garden! how full of gratitude to feel the current of health once more come back in all my veins,—the sense of enjoyment which flows from every object of the fair world restored to me, after so many dangers and escapes!
As I moved slowly through the terraced court, my eye was constantly attracted to the small and starlike light which glimmered through the darkness; and I turned to it at last, impelled by a feeling of undefinable sympathy. Following a narrow path, I drew near to a little garden, which once contained some rare flowers. They had been favorites of poor Josephine in times past; but the hour was over in which that gave them a claim to care and attention, and now they were wild grown and tangled, and almost concealed the narrow walk which led to the doorway.
I reached this at length; and as I stood, the faint moonlight, slanting beneath a cloud, fell upon a bright and glistening object almost at my feet. I stepped back, and looked fixedly at it. It was the figure of a man sleeping across the entrance of the porch. He was dressed in Mameluke fashion; but his gay trappings and rich costume were travel-stained and splashed. His unsheathed cimeter lay grasped in one hand, and a Turkish pistol seemed to have fallen from the other.
Even by the imperfect light I recognized Rustan, the favorite Mameluke of the Emperor, who always slept at the door of his tent and his chamber,—his chosen bodyguard. Napoleon must then be here; his equipage it was which arrived so hurriedly; his the light which burned through the stillness of the night. As these thoughts followed fast on one another, I almost trembled to think how nearly I had ventured on his presence, where none dared to approach unbidden. To retire quickly and noiselessly was now my care. But my first step entangled my foot; I stumbled. The noise awoke the sleeping Turk, and with a loud cry for the guard he sprang to his feet.
“La garde!” called he a second time, forgetting in his surprise that none was there. But then with a spring he seized me by the arm, and as his shining weapon gleamed above my head, demanded who I was, and for what purpose there.
The first words of my reply were scarcely uttered, when a small door was opened within the vestibule, and the Emperor appeared. Late as was the hour, he was dressed, and even wore his sword at his side.
“What means this? Who are you, sir?” was the quick, sharp question he addressed to me.
A few words—the fewest in which I could convey it—told my story, and expressed my sorrow, that in the sick man's fancy of a moonlight walk I should have disturbed his Majesty.
“I thought, Sire,” added I, “that your Majesty was many a league distant with the army—”
“There is no army, sir,” interrupted he, with a rapid gesture of his hand; “to-morrow there will be no Emperor. Go, sir; go, while it is yet the time. Offer your sword and your services where so many others, more exalted than yourself, have done. This is the day of desertion; see that you take advantage of it.”
“Had my name and rank been less humble, they would have assured your Majesty how little I merited this reproach.”
“I am sorry to have offended you,” replied he, in a voice of inexpressible softness. “You led the assault at Montereau? I remember you now. I should have given you your brigade, had I—” He stopped here suddenly, while an expression of suffering passed across his pale features; he rallied from it, however, in an instant, and resumed, “I should have known you earlier; it is too late! Adieu!”
He inclined his head slightly as he spoke, and extended his hand. I pressed it fervently to my lips, and would have spoken, but I could not. The moment after he was gone.
It is too late! too late!—the same terrible words which were uttered beneath the blackened walls of Moscow; repeated at every new disaster of that dreadful retreat; now spoken by him whose fortune they predicted. Too late!—the exclamation of the proud marshal, harassed by unsuccessful efforts to avert the destiny he saw inevitable. Too late!—the cry of the wearied soldier. Too late!—the fatal expression of the Czar when the brave and faithful Macdonald urged the succession of the King of Rome and the regency of the Empress.
Wearied with a wakeful night, I fell into a slumber towards morning, when I started suddenly at the roll of drums in the court beneath. In an instant I was at my window. What was my astonishment to perceive that the courtyard was filled with troops! The Grenadiers of the Guard were ranged in order of battle, with several squadrons of the chasseurs and the horse artillery; while a staff of general officers stood in the midst, among whom I recognized Belliard, Montesquieu, and Turenne,—great names, and worthy to be recorded for an act of faithful devotion. The Duc de Bassano was there too, in deep mourning; his pale and careworn face attesting the grief within his heart.
The roll of the drums continued; the deep, unbroken murmur of the salute went on from one end of the line to the other. It ceased; and ere I could question the reason, the various staff-officers became uncovered, and stood in attitudes of respectful attention, and the Emperor himself slowly, step by step, descended the wide stair of the “Cheval Blanc,”—as the grand terrace was styled,—and advanced towards the troops. At the same instant the whole line presented arms, and the drums beat the salute. They ceased, and Napoleon raised his hand to command silence, and throughout that crowded mass not a whisper was heard.
I could perceive that he was speaking, but the words did not reach me. Eloquent and burning words they were, and to be recorded in history to the remotest ages. I now saw that he had finished, as General Petit sprang forward with the eagle of the First Regiment of the Guards, and presented it to him. The Emperor pressed it fervently to his lips, and then threw his arms round Petit's neck; while suddenly disengaging himself, he took the tattered flag that waved above him, and kissed it twice. Unable to bear up any longer, the worn, hard-featured veterans sobbed aloud like children, and turned away their faces to conceal their emotion. No cry of “Vive l'Empereur!” resounded now through those ranks where each had willingly shed his heart's blood for him. Sorrow had usurped the place of enthusiasm, and they stood overwhelmed by grief.
A tall and soldierlike figure, with head uncovered, approached the Emperor, and said a few words. Napoleon waved his hand towards the troops, and from the ranks many rushed towards him, and fell on their knees before him. He passed his hand across his face and turned away. My eyes grew dim; a misty vapor shut out every object, and I felt as though the very lids were bursting. The great tramp of horses startled me, and then came the roll of wheels. I looked up: an equipage was passing from the gate, a peloton of dragoons escorted it; a second followed at full speed. The colonels formed their men; the word to march was given; the drums beat out; the grenadiers moved on; the chasseurs succeeded; and last the artillery rolled heavily up. The court was deserted; not a man remained: all, all were gone! The Empire was ended; and the Emperor, the mighty genius who created it, on his way to exile!