As the night wore on, I remembered that once, when a boy at the
Polytechnique, I longed to penetrate one of the little enclosures which
fenced the small flower-gardens beside the Palace, and which were railed
up from the public promenades by a low iron railing. The bouquets of
rich flowers that grew there, sparkling with the light dew of a little
jet d'eau that fell in raindrops over them, had often tempted my young
heart; but still in the daytime such a transgression would have been
immediately punished. Now, with the strange caprice which so often
prompts us in after years to do that which in youth we wished but could
not accomplish, I wandered towards the gardens, and crossing over the
low fence, entered the parterre; each step awoke the sleeping perfume of
the flowers, and I strolled along the velvet turf until I reached a low
bench, half covered with honeysuckle and woodbine. Here I threw myself
down, and, wrapping my cloak around me, resolved to rest till daybreak.
The stillness of all around, the balmy air, and my own musings,
gradually conspired to make me drowsy, and I slept.
My sleep could not have been long, when I was awakened by a noise close
beside me. I started up and looked about, and for some seconds I could
scarcely credit that I was not still dreaming. Not more than a dozen
paces from where I lay, and where before the dark walls of the Palace
rose in unbroken blackness, was now a chamber, brilliantly lighted up by
several wax-lights that stood on a table. At the window, which opened to
the ground and led into the garden, stood the figure of a man, but from
his position before the light I could not remark more than that he wore
epaulettes. It was the noise of the opening jalousies which awoke me;
and I could see his hand stretched out, as if to ascertain whether or
not it was raining. At the table I could perceive another person, on
whose uniform the light fell strongly, displaying many a cross and star,
which twinkled with every stir he made. He was busily engaged writing,
and never lifted his head from the paper. The walls of the room were
covered with shelves filled with books; and on the chairs about, and
even on the floor, lay maps and drawings in every disorder; a sword
and belt, as if just taken off, lay on the table among the writing
materials, and a cocked hat beside them.
While I noticed these details, my very heart was chill within me.
The dark figure at the window, which stirred not, seemed as if turned
towards me, and more than once I almost thought I could see his eyes
bent upon me. This was, however, but the mere suggestion of my own
fears for in the shade of the seat no light whatever fell, and I was
perfectly concealed. In the deep stillness I could hear the scraping
sound of the pen on the paper, and scarcely dared to breathe lest I
should cause discovery, when the figure retired from the window, and
moved towards the table. For some minutes he appeared to stoop over a
large map, which lay outstretched before him, and across which I could'
see his finger moving rapidly.
[Illustration: The Scene Shifted 425]
Suddenly he stood erect, and in a voice which even now rings within my
heart, said, “It must be so, Duroc; by any other route Bernadotte will be
too late!”
What was the reply I know not, such terror now fell over me. It was the
Emperor himself who spoke. It was he who the instant before was standing
close beside me at the window; and thus, a second time in my life, did I
become the unwilling eavesdropper of the man I most feared and respected
of all the world. Before I could summon resolution to withdraw, Napoleon
spoke again.
“Hardenberg,” said he, in a tone of contemptuous passion, “Hardenberg is
but a Prussian! the event will satisfy his scruples. Besides, if they
do talk about invasion of territory, you can reply: the Margraves were
always open to belligerent parties; remind them of what took place in
'96, and again in 1800,--though, _parbleu_, the souvenir may not be so
pleasant a one. Protract the discussion, at all events, Duroc; time!
time! Then,” added he, after a brief pause, “let them advance, and they
'll never pass the Danube. And if they wait for me, I 'll fall upon
them here,--here, between Ulm and Augsburg. You must, however, start for
Berlin at once.”
At this instant a heavy hand fell upon my shoulder, and passing down my
arm, seized me by the wrist. I started back, and beheld a dragoon, for
so his helmet and cloak bespoke, of enormous stature, who, motioning me
to silence, led me softly and with noiseless step along the flower-beds,
as if fearful of attracting the Emperor's notice. My limbs tottered
beneath me as I went, for the dreadful imputation an accident might fix
on me stared on me with all its awful consequences. Without a word on
either side we reached the little railing, crossed it, and regained the
open park, when the soldier, placing himself in front of me, said, in a
deep, low voice,--
“Your name; who are you?”
“An officer of the huitieme regiment of hussars,” said I, boldly.
“We shall see that presently,” replied he, in a tone of disbelief. “How
came you here?”
In a few words I explained how, having remained too late in the garden,
I preferred to pass my night on a bench to the unpleasantness of being
brought up before the officer on duty; adding, that it was only on the
very moment of his coming that I awoke.
“I know that,” interrupted he, in a less surly voice. “I found you
sleeping, and feared to awake you suddenly, lest in the surprise a word
or a cry would escape you. One syllable had cost your head.”
In the tone of these last few words there was something I thought I
could recognize, and resolving at a bold venture in such an emergency as
I found myself placed, I said at a hazard,--
“The better fortune mine, that I fell into the hands of a kind as well
as a brave soldier,--the Corporal Pioche.”
“Sacristi! You know me then!” cried he, thunderstruck.
“To be sure I do. Could I be an aide-de-camp to the General d'Auvergne,
and not have heard of Pioche?”
“An aide-de-camp of the general,” said he, starting back, as he carried
his hand to the salute. “Pardon, mon officier; but you know that duty--”
“Quite true; it was all my own indiscretion. And now, Pioche, if you 'll
keep me company here till daybreak--it cannot be far off now--the light
will soon satisfy you that my account of myself is a true one.”
“Willingly, sir,” said the gruff cuirassier. “My patrol is, to watch the
parterres from the pavilion to the allée yonder; and, if you please, we
'll take up our quarters on this bench.”
They who know not the strange mixture of deference and familiarity of
which the relation between officer and soldier is made up in the French
service, will perhaps wonder a the tone of almost equality in which we
conversed. But such is the case: the Revolutionary armies acknowledged
no other gredations of rank than such as the service conferred, nor any
degree of superiority save that derivable from greater ability of more
daring heroism; and although the troops more implicitly obeyed the
commands of their officers, the occasion of discipline over a perfect
feeling of equality remained amongst all, whether they wore the epaulets
of colones or carried a musket in the ranks. With time, and the changes
the Consulate had introduced, much of this excessive familiarity was
suppressed; still it was no uncommon thing to hear the humble rank and
file address the general of division as “thou,”--the expression of
closest friendship, probably dating from the hours of schoolboy
attachment. Nor was the officer of rank thought less of because in the
hours of off-duty, he mixed freely with those who had been his
companions through life, and talked with them as brothers. It is
probable that in no other nation such a course could have been practised
without a total subversion of all respect and the ruin of all habits of
order. The Frenchman is, however, essentially military; not merely
warlike, like the inhabitants of Great Britain,--his mind ever inclines
to the details of war as an art. It is in generalship he glories, not
the mere conflict of force; and the humblest soldier in the army takes
an interest in the great game of tactics, which in any other people
would be quite incredible. Hence he submits to the control which
otherwise he could not endure; for this, he yields to command at the
hands of one, who, although his equal in all other respects, he here
acknowledges as his superior. He knows, too, that the grade of officer
is open to merit alone, and he feels that the epaulette may be his own
one day. Such causes as these, constantly in operation, could not fail
to raise the morale of an army; nor can we wonder that from such a
source were derived many, if not most, of the great names that formed
the marshals of France. Again, to this military spirit the French owe
the perfection of their tirailleur force,--the consummate skill of
independent parties, of which every campaign gave evidence. Napoleon
found this spirit in the nation, and spared nothing to give it its
fullest development. He quickly saw to what height of enthusiasm a
people could be brought, to whom a cross or a decoration, an epaulette
or a sabre of honor, were deemed the ample rewards of every daring and
of every privation; and never in any age or in any country was chivalry
so universally spread over the wide surface of a people. With them, rank
claimed no exception from fatigue or suffering. The officer fared little
better than the soldier on a march; in a battle, he was only more
exposed to danger. By daring only could he win his way upwards; and an
emulative ardor was continually maintained, which was ever giving to the
world instances of individual heroism far more brilliant than all the
famed achievements of the crusaders.
This brief digression, unnecessary perhaps to many of my readers, may
serve to explain to others how naturally our conversation took the easy
tone of familiar equality; nor will they be surprised at the abrupt
question of the cuirassier, as he said,--
“_Mille tonnerres!_ lieutenant! was it from your liking the post of
danger you selected that bench yonder?”
“The choice was a mere accident.”
“An accident, _morbleu!_” said he, with a low laugh. “That was
what Lasalle called it at the Adige, when the wheel came off the
eight-pounder in the charge, and the enemy carried off the gun. 'An
accident!' said the Petit Caporal to him,--I was close by when he said
it,--'will your friends in Paris call it an accident if the “ordre du
jour” to-morrow condemn you to be shot?' I know him well,” continued
Pioche; “that I do. I was second bombardier with him at Toulon,--ay, at
Cairo too. I mind well the evening he came to our quarters; poor
enough we were at the time,--no clothes, no rations: I was cook to our
division; but somehow there was little duty in my department, till one
day the vivandiere's ass, (a brave beast he was too, before provisions
fell short),--a spent shot took him in the flank, and killed him on the
spot.
“Sacristi!” what damage it did! All the canteens were smashed to atoms;
horn goblets and platters knocked to pieces; but worst of all, a keg of
true Nantz was broached, and every drop lost. Poor Madame Gougon! she
loved that ass as if he had been one of the regiment; and though we
all offered her assignats on our pay, for a month each, to give us the
carcass, she wouldn't do it. No, faith! she would have him buried, and
with funeral honors! _Parbleu!_ it was a whim; but the poor thing was
in grief, and we could not refuse her. I commanded the party,” continued
Pioche, “and a long distance we had to march, lest the shots might be
heard in the quartier-général. Well, we had some trouble in getting the
poor soul away from the grave. _Sacristi!_ she took it so much to heart,
I thought she 'd have masses said for him. But we did succeed at last,
and before dawn we were all within the camp as if nothing had happened.
The whole of that day, however, the ass was never out of our minds. It
was not grief; no, no! don't think that. We were all thinking of what a
sin it was to have him buried there,--such a fine beast as he was,--and
not a pound of meat to be had if you were to offer a nine-pounder gun
for it. 'He is never the worse for his funeral,' said I; 'remember,
boys, how well preserved he was in brandy before he was buried: let's
have him up again!' No sooner was night come, than we set off for
the place where we laid him, and in less than two hours I was busily
employed in making a delicious salmi of his haunch. _Mille bommbes!_ I
think I have the smell of it before me; it was gibier, and the gravy
was like a purie. We were all pleasantly seated round the fire, watching
every turn of the roast, when--crack!--I heard the noise of the patrol
bringing his gun to the present, and before we had time to jump up, the
Petit Caporal was upon us; he was mounted on a little dark Arab, and
dressed in his gray surtout.
“'What 's all this here?' cried he, pulling up short, while the barb
sniffed the air, just as if he guessed what the meat was. 'Who has
stolen this sheep?'
“'It is not a sheep, Général,' said I, stepping forward, and trying to
hide the long ladle I was basting with.
[Illustration: The “Big Pioche” Indulging in Delicacies 430]
“'Not a sheep; then it is an ox, mayhap, or a calf,” said he again, with
an angry look.
“'Neither, Général,' said I; 'it was a--a--a beast of our division.'
“'A beast of your division! What does that mean? No trifling, mind! out
with it at once. What's this? Where did it come from?'
“'An ass, may it please you, sir,' said I, trembling all over, for I saw
he was in a rare passion. And as he repeated the word after me, I told
him the whole story, and how we could not suffer such capital prog to be
eaten by any other than good citizens of the Republic.
“While I was telling him so much, the rest stood round terrified; they
could not even turn the joint, though it was burning; and, to say truth,
I thought myself we were all in a bad way, when suddenly he burst into a
fit of laughing, and said,--
“'What part of France do these fellows come from?'
“'Alsace, mon général,' was the answer from every one.
“'I thought so, I thought so,' said he; 'Sybarites, all.'
“'No, mon général, grenadiers of the Fourth. Milhaud's brigade,' said I.
And with that he turned away, and we could hear him laughing long after
he galloped off. I saw he mistook us,” said Pioche, “and that he could
not be angry with the old Fourth.”
“You must have seen a great deal of hardship, Pioche,” said I, as
he came to a pause, and wishing to draw him on to speak more of his
campaigns.
“_Ma foi!_ there were few who saw service from '92 to '97 had not their
share of it. But they were brave times, too; every battle had its day
of promotion afterwards. Le Petit Caporal would ride down the ranks
with his staff, looking for this one, and asking for that. 'Where 's the
adjutant of the Sixth?' 'Dead, mon général.' 'Where 's the colonel of
the Voltigeurs?' 'Badly wounded.' 'Carry him this sabre of honor.' 'Who
fell over the Austrian standard, and carried away the fragment of the
drapeau?' 'One of my fellows. General; here he is.' 'And what is your
name, my brave fellow?'”
The corporal paused here, and drew a deep breath; and after a few
seconds' pause, added in altered tone, “_Sacristi!_ they were fine
times!”
“But what did he say to the soldier that took the colors?” asked I,
impatiently. “Who was he?”
“It was I,” replied Pioche himself, in a deep voice, where pride and
devotion struggled powerfully together.
“You, Pioche! indeed! Well, what said the general when he saw you?”
“'Ah, Pioche,' said he, gayly, 'my old friend of Toulouse!'
“'Yes, Général,' said I, 'we 've had some warm work together.'
“'True, Pioche, and may again perhaps. But you've been made a corporal
since that; what am I to do for you now?'
“This was a puzzling question, and I did not know how to answer it, and
he repeated it before I could make up my mind.
“'Is there nothing, then, in which I can be of use to Corporal Pioche?'
“'Yes, mon général,' said I, 'there is.'
“'Speak it out, man, then; what is it?'
“'I wish, then, you 'd rate the commissary-general of our division for
one blunder he's ever making. The powder they serve us out is always
wet, and our bread is as hard as _mitraille_. Neither bayonets nor teeth
will last forever, you know, Général.' And he burst out a-laughing
before I finished.
“'Rest assured, Pioche, I'll look to this,' said he; and he kept his
word.”
“But why didn't you ask for promotion?” said I. “What folly, was it not,
to throw away such a chance? You might have been an officer ere this.”
“No,” replied he, with a sorrowful shake of the head; “that was
impossible.”
“But why so? Bonaparte knew you well; he often noticed you.”
“True; all true,” said he, more sadly than before. “But then--”
“What, then?” asked I, with more of interest than delicacy at the
moment.
“I never learned to read,” said Pioche, in a low voice, which trembled
with agitation, while he drew his swarthy hand across his eyes, and was
silent.
The few words so spoken thrilled most powerfully within me. I saw that I
had awakened the saddest thoughts of the poor fellow's heart, and would
have given worlds to be able to recall my question. Here, then, was the
corroding sorrow of his life,--the grief that left its impress on his
stern features, and tinged with care the open brow of the brave soldier.
Each moment our silence was prolonged made it still more poignant, but I
made an effort to break it, and happily with success.
“After all, Pioche,” said I, laying my hand on his arm, “I would
willingly exchange my epaulettes for these stripes on your sleeve,
to have had Bonaparte speak to me as he has spoken to you; that was a
prouder distinction than any other, and will be a fonder recollection,
too, hereafter.”
“Do you think so, mon lieutenant?” said the poor fellow, turning round
quickly, as a faint smile played about his features--“do you think so?
_Sacristi!_ I have said as much to myself sometimes, when I've been
alone. And then I 've almost thought I could hear his kind, soft voice
ringing in my ears; for it is kind and soft as a woman's, when
he pleases, though, parbleu! it can call like a trumpet at other
times,--ay, and tingle within your heart till it sets your blood boiling
and makes your hands twitch. I mind well the campaign in the Valais; the
words keep dinning in my ears to this hour.”
“What was that, Pioche?” said I, pleased to see him turn from the
remembrance of his own regrets.
“It is a good while past now,--I forget the year exactly,--but we were
marching on Italy, and it was in spring. Still, the ground was covered
with snow; every night came on with a hailstorm that lasted till nigh
daybreak, and when we arose from the bivouac we were so stiff and frozen
we could not move. They said at the time something went wrong with the
commissariat; but when did it ever go right, I wonder? Ammunition and
provisions were always late; and though the general used to drive away a
commissary every week or ten days for misconduct, the new ones that
came turned out just as bad. The Petit Caporal kept sending them word to
Paris not to send down any more 'savants,' but a good, honest man, with
common sense and active habits. But, _parbleu_, birds of that feather
must have been rare just then, for we never could catch one of them.
Whatever was the cause, we never were so ill off; our shakos were like
wet paper, and took any shape; and out of ridicule we used to come upon
parade with them fashioned into three-cocked hats, and pointed caps, and
slouched beavers. The officers couldn't say a word, you know, all
this time; it was not our fault if we were in such misery. Then, as to
shoes,--a few could boast of the upper leathers, but a sole or a heel
was not to be found in a company. Our coats were actually in rags, and
a pivot sentry looked for all the world like a flagstaff, as he stood
fluttering in the wind.
“We bore up, however, as well as we could, for some time, grumbling
occasionally over our condition, and sometimes laughing at it when we
had the heart; till at last, when we saw the new convoy arrive, and
all the biscuits distributed among the young regiments and the new
conscripts, we could endure it no longer, and a terrible outcry arose
among the troops. We were all drawn up on parade,--it was an inspection;
for, _parbleu!_ though we were as ragged as scarecrows, they would have
us out twice a week to review us, and put us through the manoeuvres.
Scarcely had the general--it was Bonaparte himself--got halfway down
the line, when a shout ran from rank to rank: 'Bread! shoes! caps!
biscuits!'
“'What do I hear?' said Bonaparte, standing up in his stirrups, and
frowning at the line. 'Who are the malcontents that dare to cry out on
parade? Let them stand out; let me see them.'
“And at once more than half the regiment of grenadiers sprang forward,
and shouted louder than before, 'Bread! bread! let us have food and
clothing! If we are to fight, let us not die of hunger!'
“'Grenadiers of the Fourth,' cried he, in a terrible voice, 'to your
ranks! Second division, and third!' shouted he, with his hand up, 'form
in square!--carry arms!--present arms! front rank, kneel! Kneel!' said
he, again louder; for you know we never did that in those days. However,
every word was obeyed, and down dropped the leading files on their
knees; and there we were rooted to the ground. Not a man spoke; all
silent as death.
“He then advanced to the front of the staff, and pointing his hand to a
convoy of wagons that could just be seen turning the angle of the
road, with white flags flying, to show what they were, called out,
'Commissary-general, distribute full rations and half ammunition to the
young regiments; half rations and full ammunition to the veterans of
Egypt!' A shout of applause burst out; but he cried louder than
before, 'Silence in the ranks!' Then, taking off his chapeau, he stood
bareheaded before us; and in a voice like the bugle that blows the
charge, he read from a large paper in his hand, 'In the name of the
French Republic, one and indivisible. The Directory of the nation
decrees, that the thanks of the Government be given to the Grenadiers
of the Fourth, who have deserved well of their country. Vive la
République!'
“'Vive la République!' shouted the whole square in a roar, like the sea
itself. Who thought more of hardships or hunger then? Our only desire
was when we were to meet the enemy; and many a jest and many a laugh
went round as we loaded our pouches with the new ammunition.
“'Who's that fellow yonder?' said Bonaparte, as he rode slowly down the
line. 'I should know him, I think. Is n't that Pioche?'
“'Yes, mon général,' said I, saluting him; 'it is what remains of poor
Pioche,--_parbleu!_ very little more than half, though.'
“'Ah, glutton!' said he, laughing, 'I ought to have guessed you were
here; one such gourmand is enough to corrupt a whole brigade.'
“'Pioche is a good soldier, citizen-general, 'said my captain, who was
an old schoolfellow of mine.
“'I know it, Captain,' said the general.
“'You were in Excelmans's dragoons, Pioche, if mistake not?'
“Two years and ten months, citizen-general.'
“'Why did you leave them, and when?'
“'At Monte Bello, with the colonel's permission.'
“'And the reason?'
“'_Morbleu!_ it was a fancy I had. They killed two horses under me that
day, and I saw I was not destined for the cavalry.'
“'Ha, ha!' said he, with a sly laugh; 'had they been asses, the thing
might have been different, eh?'
“'Yes, mon général,' said I, growing red, for I knew what he meant.
“'Come, Pioche, you must go back again to your old corps; they want
one or two like you,--though, _parbleu!_ you 'll ruin the Republic in
remounts.'
“'As you please it, Général.'
“'Well, what shall I do for you besides? Any more commissaries to row,
eh? Methinks no bad time to gratify you in that way.'
“'Ah, mon général if you would only hang up one now and then.'
“'So I intend, the next time I hear of any of my soldiers being
obliged to eat the asses of the vivandiéres.' And with that he rode on,
laughing, though none, save myself, knew what he alluded to; and, _ma
foi_, I was not disposed to turn the laugh against myself by telling.
But there goes the _réveil_, and I must leave you, mon lieutenant; the
gates will be open in a few minutes.”
“Good-by, Pioche,” said I, “and many thanks for your pleasant company. I
hope we shall meet again, and soon.”
“I hope so, mon lieutenant; and if it be at a bivouac fire, all the
better.”
The gallant corporal made his military salute, wheeled about, stiff
as if on parade, and departed; while I, throwing my cloak over my arm,
turned into the broad alley and left the garden.