We passed the night on the field of battle,--a night dark and starless.
The heavens were, indeed, clothed with black, and a heavy atmosphere,
lowering and gloomy, spread like a pall over the dead and the dying. Not
a breath of air moved; and the groans of the wounded sighed through the
stillness with a melancholy cadence no words can convey. Far away in the
distance the moving lights marked where fatigue parties went in search
of their comrades. The Emperor himself did not leave the saddle till
nigh morning; he went, followed by an ambulance, hither and thither over
the plain, recalling the names of the several regiments, enumerating
their deeds of prowess, and even asking for many of the soldiers by
name. He ordered large fires to be lighted throughout the field, and
where medical assistance could not be procured, the officers of the
staff might be seen covering the wounded with greatcoats and cloaks, and
rendering them such aid as lay in their power.
Dreadful as the picture was,--fearful reverse to the gorgeous splendor
of the vast army the morning sun had shone upon, and in the pride of
strength and spirit,--yet even here was there much to make one feel that
war is not bereft of its humanizing influences. How many a soldier did I
see that night, blackened with powder, his clothes torn and ragged with
shot, sitting beside a wounded comrade--now wetting his lips with a
cool draught, now cheering his heart with words of comfort! Many, though
wounded, were tending others less able to assist themselves. Acts of
kindness and self-devotion--not less in number than those of heroism and
courage--were met with at every step; while among the sufferers there
lived a spirit of enthusiasm that seemed to lighten the worst pang of
their agony. Many would cry out, as I passed, to know the fate of the
day, and what became of this regiment or of that battalion. Others could
but articulate a faint “Vive l'Empereur!” which in the intervals of pain
they kept repeating, as though it were a charm against suffering; while
one question met me every instant,--“What says the Petit Caporal? Is he
content with us?” None were insensible to the glorious issue of
that day; nor amid all the agony of death, dealt out in every shape of
horror and misery, did I hear one word of anger or rebuke to him for
whose ambition they had shed their heart's blood.
[Illustration: 050]
Having secured a fresh horse, I rode forward in the direction of
Austerlitz, where our cavalry, met by the chevaliers of the Russian
Imperial Guard, sustained the greatest check and the most considerable
loss of the day. The old dragoon who accompanied me warned me I should
find few, if any, of our comrades living there.
“_Ventrebleu!_ lieutenant, you can't expect it. The first four squadrons
went down like one man; for when our fellows fell wounded from their
horses, they always sabred or shot them as they lay.”
I found this information but too correct. Lines of dead men lay beside
their horses, ranged as they stood in battle, while before them lay the
bodies of the Russian Guard, their gorgeous uniform all slashed with
gold, marking them out amid the dull russet costumes of their comrades.
In many places were they intermingled, and showed where a hand-to-hand
combat had been fought; and I saw two clasped rigidly in each other's
grasp, who had evidently been shot by others while struggling for the
mastery.
“I told you, mon lieutenant, it was useless to come here; this was _à la
mort_ while it lasted; and if it had continued much longer in the same
fashion, it's hard to say which of us had been going over the field now
with lanterns.”
Too true, indeed! Not one wounded man did we meet with, nor did one
human voice break the silence around us. “Perhaps,” said I, “they may
have already carried up the wounded to the village yonder; I see a great
blaze of light there. Bide forward, and learn if it be so.”
When I had dismissed the orderly, I dismounted from my horse, and walked
carefully along the ridge of ground, anxious to ascertain if any poor
fellow still remained alive amid that dreadful heap of dead. A low
brushwood covered the ground in certain places; and here I perceived
but few of the cavalry had penetrated, while the infantry were all
tirailleurs of the Russian Guard, bayoneted by our advancing columns.
As I approached the lake the ground became more rugged and uneven; and
I was about to turn back, when my eye caught the faint glimmering of
a light reflected in the water. Picketing my horse where he stood, I
advanced alone towards the light, which I saw now was at the foot of a
little rocky crag beside the lake. As I drew near, I stopped to listen,
and could distinctly hear the deep tones of a man's voice, as if broken
at intervals by pain, while in his accents I thought I could trace a
tone of indignant passion rather than of bodily suffering.
“Leave me, leave me where I am,” cried he, peevishly. “I thought I might
have had my last few moments tranquil, when I staggered thus far.”
“Come, come, Comrade!” said another, in a voice of comforting; “come,
thou wert never faint-hearted before. Thou hast had thy share of
bruises, and cared little about them too. Art dry?”
“Yes; give me another drink. Ah!” cried he, in an excited tone, “they
can't stand before the cuirassiers of the Guard. _Sacrebleu!_ how proud
the Petit Caporal will be of this day!” Then, dropping his voice,
he muttered, “What care I who's proud? I have my billet, and must be
going.”
“Not so, _mon enfant_; thou'lt have the cross for thy day's work. He
knows thee well; I saw him smile to-day when thou madest the salute in
passing.”
“Didst thou that?” said the wounded man, with eagerness; “did he smile?
Ah, villain! how you can allure men to shed their heart's blood by a
smile! He knows me! That he ought, and, if he but knew how I lay here
now, he 'd send the best surgeon of his staff to look after me.”
“That he would, and that he will; courage, and cheer up.”
“No, no; I don't care for it now. I'll never go back to the regiment
again; I could n't do it!”
As he spoke the last words his voice became fainter and fainter, and
at last was lost in a hiccup; partly, as it seemed, from emotion, and
partly from bodily suffering.
“_Qui vive?_” cried his companion, as the clash of my sabre announced my
approach.
“An officer of the Eighth Hussars,” said I, in a low voice, fearing to
disturb the wounded man, as he lay with his head sunk on his knees.
“Too late, Comrade! too late,” said he, in a stifled tone; “the order of
route has come. I must away.”
“A brave cuirassier of the Guard should never say so while he has a
chance left to serve his Emperor in another field of battle.”
“Vive l'Empereur! vive l'Empereur!” shouted he, madly, as he lifted his
helmet and tried to wave it above his head. But the exertion brought on
a violent fit of coughing, which choked his utterance, while a torrent
of red blood gushed from his mouth, and deluged his neck and chest.
“Ah, _mon Dieu!_ that cry has been his death,” said the other, wringing
his hands in utter misery.
“Where is he wounded?” said I, kneeling down beside the sick man, who
now lay, half on his face, upon the grass.
“In the chest, through the lung,” whispered the other. “He doesn't know
the doctor saw him; it was he told me there was no hope. 'You may leave
him,' said he; 'an hour or two more are all that 's left him;' as if I
could leave a comrade we all loved. My poor fellow, it is a sad day for
the old Fourth when thou art taken from them!”
“Ha! was he of the Fourth, then?” said I, remembering the regiment.
“Yes, _parbleu!_ and though but a corporal, he was well known throughout
the army. Pioche--”
“Pioche!” cried I, in agony; “is this Pioche?”
“Here,” said the wounded man, hearing the name, and answering as if on
parade,--“here, mon commandant! but too faint, I 'm afraid, for duty.
I feel weak to-day,” said he, as he pressed his hand upon his side, and
then slowly sank back against the rock, and dropped his arms at either
side.
“Come,” said I, “we must lose no time. Let us carry him to the rear. If
nothing else can be done, he 'll meet with care--”
“Hush! mon lieutenant! don't let him hear you speak of that. He stormed
and swore so much when the ambulance passed, and they wanted to bring
him along, that it brought on a coughing fit, just like what you saw,
and he lay in a faint for half an hour after. He vows he 'll never stir
from where he is. Truth is, Commandant,” said he, in the lowest whisper,
“he is determined to die. When his squadron fell back from the Russian
square, he rode on their bayonets, and cut at the men while the
artillery was playing all about him. He told me this morning he 'd never
leave the field.”
“Poor fellow! what was the meaning of this sad resolution?”
“_Ma foi!_ a mere trifle, after all,” said the other, shrugging his
shoulders, and making a true French grimace of contempt. “You 'll smile
when I tell you; but he takes it to heart, poor fellow. His mistress has
been false to him,--no great matter that, you 'd say,--but so it is, and
nothing more. See how still he lies now! is he sleeping?”
“I fear not; he looks exhausted from loss of blood. Come, we must have
him out of this; here comes my orderly to assist us. If we carry him to
the road I 'll find a carriage of some sort.”
I said this in a tone of command, to silence any scruples he might
still have about obeying his comrade in preference to the orders of an
officer. He obeyed with the instinct of discipline, and proceeded to
fold his cloak in such a manner that we could carry the wounded man
between us.
The poor corporal, too weak to resist us, faint from bleeding and
semi-stupid, suffered himself to be lifted upon the cloak, and never
uttered a word or a cry as we bore him along between us.
We had not proceeded far when we came up with a convoy, conducting
several carts with the wounded to the convent of Reygern, which had now
been fitted up as an hospital. On one of these we secured a place for
our poor friend, and walked along beside him towards the convent. As we
went along I questioned his comrade closely on the point; and he told
me that Pioche had resolved never to survive the battle, and had taken
leave of his friends the evening before.
“Ah, _parbleu!_” added he, with energy, “mademoiselle is pretty
enough,--there 's no denying that; but her head is turned by flattery
and soft speeches. All the gay young fellows of the hussar regiment,
the aides-de-camp,--ay, and some of the generals, too,--have paid her
so much attention that it could not be expected she'd care for a poor
corporal. Not but that Pioche is a brave fellow and a fine soldier.
_Sapristi!_ he 'd be no discredit to any girl's choice. But Minette--”
“Minette, the vivandière?”
“Ay, to be sure, mon lieutenant; I'd warrant you must have known her.”
“What of her? where is she?” said I, burning with impatience.
“She's with the wounded, up at Reygern yonder. They sent for her to
Heilbrunn yesterday, where she was with the reserve battalions. _Ma
foi!_ you don't think our fellows would do without Minette at the
ambulance, where there was a battle to be fought. They say they'd hard
work enough to make her come up. After all, she's a strange girl; that
she is.”
“How was that? Has she taken offence with the Fourth?”
“No, that is not it; she likes the old regiment in her heart. I'd never
believe she didn't; but” (here he dropped his voice to a low whisper,
as if dreading to be overheard by the wounded man), “but they say--who
knows if it's true?--that when she was left behind at Ulm or Elchingen,
or somewhere up there on the Danube, that there was a young fellow--I
heard his name, too, but I forget it--who was brought in badly wounded,
and that mademoiselle was left to watch and nurse him. He got well in
time, for the thing was not so serious as they thought. And what do you
think was the return he made the poor girl? He seduced her!”
“It's false! false as hell!” cried I, bursting with passion. “Who has
dared to spread such a calumny?”
“Don't be angry, mon lieutenant; there are plenty to answer for the
report. And if it was yourself--”
“Yes; it was by _my_ bedside she watched; it was to _me_ she gave that
care and kindness by which I recovered from a dangerous wound. But so
far from this base requital--”
“Why did she leave you, then, and march night and day with the chasseur
brigade into the Tyrol? Why did she tell her friends that she'd never
see the old Fourth again? Why did she fret herself into an illness--”
“Did she do this, poor girl?”
“Ay, that she did. But, mayhap, you never heard of all this. I can only
say, mon lieutenant, that you'd be safer in a broken square, charged by
a heavy squadron, than among the Fourth, after what you 've done.”
I turned indignantly from him without a reply; for while my pride
revolted at answering an accusation from such a quarter, my mind was
harassed by the sad fate of poor Minette, and perplexed how to account
for her sudden departure. My silence at once arrested my companion's
speech, and we walked along the remainder of the way without a word on
either side.
The day was just breaking when the first wagon of the convoy entered the
gates of the convent. It was an enormous mass of building, originally
destined for the reception of about three thousand persons; for, in
addition to the priestly inhabitants, there were two great hospitals and
several schools included within the walls. This, before the battle, had
been tenanted by the staffs of many general officers and the corps of
engineers and sappers, but now was entirely devoted to the wounded of
either army; for Austrians and Russians were everywhere to be met with,
receiving equal care and attention with our own troops.
It was the first time I had witnessed a military hospital after a
battle, and the impression was too fearful to be ever forgotten by me.
The great chambers and spacious rooms of the convent were soon found
inadequate for the numbers who arrived; and already the long corridors
and passages of the building were crowded with beds, between which a
narrow path scarcely permitted one person to pass. Here, promiscuously,
without regard to rank, officers in command lay side by side with the
meanest privates, awaiting the turn of medical aid, as no other order
was observed than the necessities of each case demanded. A black
mark above the bed, indicating that the patient's state was hopeless,
proclaimed that no further attention need be bestowed; while the
same mark, with a white bar across it, implied that it was a case for
operation. In this way the surgeons who arrived at each moment from
different corps of the army discovered, at a glance, where their
services were required, and not a minute's time was lost.
The dreadful operations of surgery--for which, in the events of
every-day life, every provision of delicate secrecy, and every minute
detail which can alleviate dread, are so rigidly studied,--were here
going forward on every side; the horrible preparations moved from bed to
bed with a rapidity which showed that where suffering so abounded
there was no time for sympathy; and the surgeons, with arms bare to the
shoulder and bedaubed with blood, toiled away as though life no longer
moved in the creeping flesh beneath the knife, and human agony spoke not
aloud with every motion of their hand.
“Place there! move forward!” said an hospital surgeon, as they carried
up the litter on which Pioche lay stretched and senseless.
“What's this?” cried a surgeon, leaning forward, and placing his hand on
the sick man's pulse. “Ah! take him back again; it 's all over there!”
“Oh, no!” cried I, in agony, “it can scarcely be; they lifted him alive
from the wagon.”
“He's not dead, sir,” replied the surgeon, in a whisper, “but he will
soon be; there's internal bleeding going on from that wound, and a few
hours, or less perhaps must close the scene.”
“Can nothing be done? nothing?”
“I fear not.” He opened the jacket of the wounded man as he spoke, and
slitting the inner clothes asunder with a quick stroke of his scissors,
disclosed a tremendous sabre-wound in the side. “That is not the worst,”
said he. “Look here,” pointing to a small bluish mark of a bullet hole
above it; “here lies the mischief.”
An hospital aid whispered something at the instant in the surgeon's ear,
to which he quickly replied, “When?”
“This instant, sir; the ligature slipped, and--”
“Remove him,” was the reply. “Now, sir, I have a bed for your poor
fellow here; but I have little hope to give you. His pulse is stronger,
otherwise the endeavor would be lost time.”
While they carried the litter forward, I perceived that another party
were lifting from a bed near a figure, over whose face the sheet was
carelessly thrown. I guessed from the gestures that the form they lifted
was lifeless; the heavy sumph of the body upon the ground showed it
beyond a doubt. The bearers replaced the dead man by the dying body of
poor Pioche; and from a vague feeling of curiosity, I stooped down and
drew back the sheet from the face of the corpse. As I did so, my limbs
trembled, and I leaned back almost fainting against the wall. Pale with
the pallor of death, but scarcely altered from life, I beheld the dead
features of Amédée Pichot, the captain whose insolence had left an
unsettled quarrel between us. The man for whose coming I waited to
expiate an open insult, now lay cold and lifeless at my feet. What a
rush of sensations passed through my mind as I gazed on that motionless
mass! and oh, what gratitude my heart gushed to think that he did not
fall by _my_ hand!
“A brave soldier, but a quarrelsome friend,” said the surgeon, stooping
down to examine the wound, with all the indifference of a man who
regarded life as a mere problem. “It was a cannon-shot carried it off.”
As he said this, he disclosed the mangled remains of a limb, torn from
the trunk too high to permit of amputation. “Poor Amédée! it was the
death he always wished for. It was a strange horror he had of falling
by the hand of an adversary, rather than being carried off thus. And now
for the cuirassier.”
So saying, he turned towards the bed on which Pioche lav, still as death
itself. A few minutes' careful investigation of the case enabled him to
pronounce that although the chances were many against recovery, yet it
was not altogether hopeless.
“All will depend on the care of whoever watches him,” said the surgeon.
“Symptoms will arise, requiring prompt attention and a change in
treatment; and this is one of those cases where a nurse is worth a
hundred doctors. Who takes charge of this bed?” he called aloud.
“Minette, Monsieur,” said a sergeant. “She has lain down to take a
little rest, for she was quite worn out with fatigue.”
“Me voici!” said a silvery voice I knew at once to be hers. And the
same instant she pierced the crowd around the bed, and approached the
patient. No sooner had she beheld the features of the sick man than she
reeled back, and grasped the arms of the persons on either side. For a
few seconds she stood, with her hands pressed upon her face, and when
she withdrew them, her features were almost ghastly in their hue, while,
with a great effort over her emotion, she said, in a low voice, “Can he
recover?”
“Yes, Minette!” replied the surgeon, “and will, if care avail anything.
Just hear me for a moment.”
With that he drew her to one side, and commenced to explain the
treatment he proposed to adopt. As he spoke, her cloak, which up to this
instant she wore, dropped from her shoulders, and she stood there in the
dress of the vivandière: a short frock coat, of light blue, with a thin
gold braid upon the collar and the sleeve; loose trousers of white jean,
strapped beneath her boots; a silk sash of scarlet and gold entwined was
fastened round her waist, and fell in a long fringe at her side; while
a cap of blue cloth, with a gold band and tassel, hung by a hook at her
girdle. Simple as was the dress, it displayed to perfection the symmetry
of her figure and her carriage, and suited the character of her air and
gesture, which, abrupt and impatient at times, was almost boyish in the
wayward freedom of her action.
The surgeon soon finished his directions, the crowd separated, and
Minette alone remained by the sick man's bed. For some minutes her cares
did not permit her to look up; but when she did, a slight cry broke from
her, and she sank down upon the seat at the bedside.
“Minette, dear Minette, you are not angry with me?” said I, in a low and
trembling tone. “I have not done aught to displease you,--have I so?”
She answered not a word, but a blush of the deepest scarlet suffused her
face and temples, and her bosom heaved almost convulsively.
“To you I owe my life,” continued I, with earnestness; “nay more, I owe
the kindness which made of a sick-bed a place of pleasant thoughts and
happy memories. Can I, then, have offended you, while my whole heart was
bursting with gratitude?”
A paleness, more striking than the blush that preceded it, now stole
over her features, but she uttered not a word. Her eyes turned from
me and fell upon her own figure, and I saw the tears till up and roll
slowly along her cheeks.
“Why did you leave me, Minette?” said I, wound up by her obstinate
silence beyond further endurance. “Did the few words of impatience--”
“No, no, no!” broke she in, “not that! not that!”
“What then? Tell me, for Heaven's sake, how have I earned your
displeasure? Believe me, I have met with too little kindness in my way
through life, not to feel poignantly the loss of a friend. What was it,
I beseech you?”
“Oh, do not ask me!” cried she, with streaming eyes; “do not, I beg of
you. Enough that you know--and this I swear to you,--that no fault of
yours was in question. You were always good and always kind to me,--too
kind, too good,--but not even your teaching could alter the waywardness
of my nature. Speak of this no more, I ask you, as the greatest favor
you can bestow on me. See here,” cried she, while her lips trembled with
emotion; “I have need of all my courage to be of use to him; and you
will not, I am sure, render me unequal to my task.”
“But we are friends, Minette; friends as before,” said I, taking her
hand, and pressing it within mine.
“Yes, friends!” muttered she, in a broken voice, while she turned her
head from me. “Adieu! Monsieur, adieu!”
“Adieu, then, since you wish it so, Minette! But whatever your secret
reason for this change towards me, you never can alter the deep-rooted
feeling of my heart, which makes me know myself your friend forever.”
The more I thought of Minette's conduct, the more puzzled I was. No
jealousy on the part of Pioche could explain her abrupt departure from
Elchingen, and her resolve never to rejoin the Fourth. She was, indeed,
a strange girl, wayward and self-willed; but her impulses all had their
source in high feelings of honor and exalted pride. It might have been
that some chance expression had given her offence; yet she denied this.
But still, her former frankness was gone, and a sense of coldness, if
not distrust, had usurped its place. I could make nothing of it. One
thing alone did I feel convinced of,--she did not love Pioche. Poor
fellow! with all the fine traits of his honest nature, the manly
simplicity and openness of his character, he had not those arts of
pleasing which win their way with a woman's mind. Besides that, Minette,
from habit and tone of voice, had imbibed feelings and ideas of a very
different class in society, and with a feminine tact, had contrived to
form acquaintance with, and a relish for, the tastes and pleasures of
the cultivated World. The total subversion of all social order effected
by the Revolution had opened the path of ambition in life equally to
women as to men; and all the endeavors of the Consulate and the Empire
had not sobered down the minds of France to their former condition.
The sergeant to-day saw no reason why he might not wear his epaulettes
to-morrow, and in time exchange his shako even for a crown; and so the
vivandière, whose life was passed in the intoxicating atmosphere of
glory, might well dream of greatness which should be hers hereafter,
and of the time when, as the wife of a marshal or a peer of France, she
would walk the _salons_ of the Tuileries as proudly as the daughter of a
Rohan or a Tavanne.
There was, then, nothing vain or presumptuous in the boldest flight of
ambition. However glittering the goal, it was beyond the reach of none;
and the hopes which, in better-ordered communities, had been deemed
absurd, seemed here but fair and reasonable. And from this element alone
proceeded some of the greatest actions, and by far the greatest portion
of the unhappiness, of the period. The mind of the nation was unfixed;
men had not as yet resolved themselves into those grades and classes,
by the means of which public opinion is brought to bear upon individuals
from those of his own condition. Each was a law unto himself, suggesting
his own means of advancement and estimating his own powers of success;
and the result was, a general scramble for rank, dignity, and honors,
the unfitness of the possessor for which, when attained, brought neither
contempt nor derision. The epaulette was noblesse; the shako, a coronet.
What wonder, then, if she, whose personal attractions were so great, and
whose manners and tone of thought were so much above her condition, had
felt the stirrings of that ambition within her heart which now appeared
to be the moving spirit of the nation!
Lost in such thoughts, I turned homewards towards my quarters, and was
already some distance from the convent when a dragoon galloped up to my
side, and asked eagerly if I were the surgeon of the Sixth Grenadiers.
As I replied in the negative, he muttered something between his teeth,
and added louder, “The poor general; it will be too late after all.”
So saying, and before I could question him further, he set spurs to
his horse, and dashing onwards, soon disappeared in the darkness of the
night. A few minutes afterwards I beheld a number of lanterns straight
before me on the narrow road, and as I came nearer, a sentinel called
out,--
“Halt there! stand!”
I gave my name and rank, when the man, advancing towards me, said in a
half whisper,--
“It is our general, sir; they say he cannot be brought any farther, and
they must perform the operation here.”
The soldier's voice trembled at every word, and he could scarcely falter
out, in reply to my question, the name of the wounded officer.
“General St. Hilaire, sir, who led the grenadiers on the Pratzen,” said
the poor fellow, his sorrow struggling with his pride.
I pressed forward; and there on a litter lay the figure of a large and
singularly fine-looking man. His coat, which was covered with orders,
lay open, and discovered a shirt stained and clotted with blood; but his
most dangerous wound was from a grapeshot in the thigh, which shattered
the bone, and necessitated amputation. A young staff surgeon, the
only medical man present, was kneeling at his side, and occupied in
compressing some wounded vessels to arrest the bleeding, which, at the
slightest stir of the patient, broke out anew. The remainder of
the group were grenadiers of his own regiment, in whose sad and
sorrow-struck faces one might read the affection his men invariably bore
him.
“Is he coming? can you hear any one coming?” said the young surgeon, in
an anxious whisper to the soldier beside him.
“No, sir; but he cannot be far off now,” replied the man.
“Shall I ride back to Reygern for assistance?” said I, in a low voice,
to the surgeon.
“I thank you, sir,” said the wounded man, in a low, calm tone,--for with
the quick ear of suffering he had overheard my question,--“I thank you,
but my orderly has already been sent thither. If you could relieve my
young friend here from his fatiguing duty for a little, you would render
us both a service. I am truly grieved to see him so much exhausted.”
“No, no, sir!” stammered the youth, as the tears ran fast down his
cheeks; “this is my place. I will not leave it.”
“Kind fellow!” muttered the general, as he pressed his hand gently on
the young man's arm; “I can bear this better than you can.”
“Ah, here he comes now,” said the sentinel; and the same moment a man
dismounted from his horse, and came forward towards us.
It was Louis, the surgeon of the Emperor himself, despatched by Napoleon
the moment he heard of the event. At any other moment, perhaps, the
abrupt demeanor of this celebrated surgeon would have savored little
of delicacy or feeling; nor even then could I forgive the sudden
announcement in which he conveyed to the sufferer that immediate
amputation must be performed.
“No chance left but this, Louis?” said the general.
“None, sir,” replied the doctor, while he unlocked an instrument case,
and busied himself in preparation for the operation.
“Can you defer it a little; an hour or two, I mean?”
“An hour, perhaps; not more, certainly.”
“But am I certain of your services then, Louis?” said the general,
trying to smile. “You know I always promised myself your aid when this
hour came.”
“I shall return in an hour,” replied the doctor, pulling out his watch;
“I am going to Rapp's quarters.”
“Poor Rapp! is he wounded?”
“A mere sabre-cut; but Sebastiani has suffered more severely. Now then,
Lanusse,” said he, addressing the young surgeon, “you remain here.
Continue as you are doing, and in an hour--”
“In an hour,” echoed the wounded man, with a shudder, as though the
anticipation of the dreadful event had thrilled through his very heart.
Nor was it till the retiring sounds of the surgeon's horse had died
away in the distance that his features recovered their former calm and
tranquil expression.
“A prompt fellow is Louis,” said he, after a pause; “and though one
might like somewhat more courtesy in the Faubourg, yet on the field
of battle it is all for the best; this is no place nor time for
compliments.”
The young man answered not a word, either not daring to criticise too
harshly his superior, or perhaps his emotion at the moment was too
strong for utterance. In reply to my offer to remain with him, however,
he thanked me heartily, and seemed gratified that he was not to be left
alone in such a trying emergency.
“Come,” said St. Hilaire, after a pause, “I have asked for time, and
am already forgetting how to employ it. Who can write here? Can you,
Guilbert?”
“Alas, no, sir!” said a dark grenadier, blushing to the very eyes.
“If you will permit a stranger, sir,” said I, “I will be but too proud
and too happy to render you any assistance in my power. I am on the
staff of General d'Auvergne, and--”
“A French officer, sir,” interrupted he; “quite enough. I ask for no
other guerdon of your honor. Sit down here, then, and--But first try if
you can discover a pocket-book in my sabretache; I hope it has not been
lost.”
“Here it is, General,” said a soldier, coming forward with it; “I found
it on the ground beside you.”
“Well, then, I will ask you to write down from my dictation a few lines,
which, should this affair,”--he faltered slightly here,--“this affair
prove unfortunate, you will undertake to convey, by some means or other,
to the address I shall give you in Paris. It is not a will, I assure
you,” continued he with a faint smile. “I have no wealth to leave; but
I know his Majesty too well to fear anything on that score. But my
children, I wish to give some few directions--” Here he stopped for
several minutes, and then, in a calm voice, added, “Whenever you are
ready.”
It was with a suffering spirit and a faltering hand I wrote down, from
his dictation, some short sentences addressed to each member of his
family. Of these it is not my intention to speak, save in one instance,
where St. Hilaire himself evinced a wish that his sentiments should not
be a matter of secrecy.
“I desire,” said he, in a firm tone of voice, as he turned round and
addressed the soldiers on either side of him,--“I desire that my son,
now at the Polytechnique, should serve the Emperor better than, and as
faithfully as, his father has done, if his Majesty will graciously
permit him to do so, in the grenadier battalion, which I have long
commanded; it will be the greatest favor I can ask of him.” A low murmur
of grief, no longer repressible, ran through the little group around the
litter. “The grenadiers of the Sixth,” continued he, proudly, while for
an instant his pale features flushed up, “will not love him the less for
the name he bears. Come, come, men! do not give way thus; what will my
kind young friend here say of us, when he joins the hussar brigade? This
is not their ordinary mood, believe me,” said he, addressing me. “The
Russian Guard would give a very different account of them; they are
stouter fellows at the _pas dé charge_ than around the litter of a
wounded comrade.”
While he was yet speaking, Louis returned, followed by two officers, one
of whom, notwithstanding his efforts at concealment, I recognized to be
Marshal Murat.
“We must remove him, if it be possible,” said the surgeon, in a whisper.
“And yet the slightest motion is to be dreaded.”
“May I speak to him?” said Murat, in a low voice.
“Yes, that you may,” replied Louis, who now pushed his way forward and
approached the litter.
“Ah, so soon!” said the wounded man, looking up; “a man of your word,
Louis. And how is Rapp? Nothing in this fashion, I hope,” added he,
pointing to his fractured limb with a sickly smile.
“No, no,” replied the surgeon. “But here is Marshal Murat come to
inquire after you, from the Emperor.”
A flush of pride lit up St. Hilaire's features as he heard this, and he
asked eagerly, “Where, where?”
“We must remove you, St. Hilaire,” said Murat, endeavoring to speak
calmly, when it was evident his feelings were highly excited; “Louis
says you must not remain here.”
“As you like, Marshal. What says his Majesty? Is the affair as decisive
as he looked for?”
“Far more so. The allied army is destroyed; the campaign is ended.”
“Come, then, this is not so bad as I deemed it,” rejoined St. Hilaire,
with a tone of almost gayety; “I can afford to be invalided if the
Emperor has no further occasion for me.”
While these few words were interchanging, Louis had applied a tourniquet
around the wounded limb, and having given the soldiers directions how
they were to step, so as not to disturb or displace the shattered bones,
he took his place beside the litter, and said,--
“We are ready now, General.”
They lifted the litter as he spoke, and moved slowly forward. Murat
pressed the hand St. Hilaire extended to him without a word; and then,
turning his head away, suffered the party to pass on.
Before we reached Beygern, the wounded general had fallen into a heavy
sleep, from which he did not awake as they laid him on the bed in the
hospital.
“Good-night, sir,--or rather, good-morning,” said Louis to me, as I
turned to leave the spot. “We may chance to have better news for you
than we anticipated, when you visit us here again.”
And so we parted.