The day after the battle of Austerlitz the Prince of Lichtenstein
arrived in our camp, with, as it was rumored, proposals for a peace.
The negotiations, whatever they were, were strictly secret, not even
the marshals themselves being admitted to Napoleon's confidence on this
occasion. Soon after mid-day, a great body of the Guard who had been in
reserve the previous day were drawn up in order of battle, presenting an
array of several thousand men, whose dress, look, and equipment, fresh
as if on parade before the Tuileries, could not fail to strike the
Austrian envoy with amazement. Everything that could indicate the
appearance of suffering, or even fatigue, among the troops, was
sedulously kept out of view. Such of the cavalry regiments as suffered
least in the battle were under arms; while the generals of division
received orders to have their respective staffs fully equipped and
mounted, as if on a day of review.
It was late in the afternoon when the word was passed along the lines
to stand to arms; and the moment after a _calèche_, drawn by six horses,
passed in full gallop, and took the road towards Austerlitz. The return
of the Austrian envoy set a thousand conjectures in motion, and all were
eager to find out what had been the result of his mission.
[Illustration: BrowneBivwacAfterBattle027]
“We must soon learn it all,” said an old colonel of artillery near me.
“If the game be war, we shall be called up to assist Davoust's movement
on Göding. The Russians have but one line of retreat, and that is
already in our possession.”
“I cannot for the life of me understand the Emperor's inaction,” said a
younger officer; “here we remain just as if nothing had been done. One
would suppose that a Russian army stood in full force before us, and
that we had not gained a tremendous battle.”
“Depend on it, Auguste,” said the old officer, smiling, “his Majesty is
not the man to let slip his golden opportunities. If we don't advance,
it is because it is safer to remain where we are.”
“Safer than pursue a flying enemy?”
“Even so. It is not Russia, nor Austria, we have in the field against
us; but Europe,--the world.”
“With all my heart,” retorted the other, boldly; “nor do I think the
odds unfair. All I would ask is, the General Bonaparte of Cairo or
Marengo, and not the purple-clad Emperor of the Tuileries.”
“It is not while the plain is yet reeking with the blood of Austerlitz
that such a reproach should be spoken,” said I, indignantly. “Never was
Bonaparte greater than Napoleon.”
“Monsieur has served in Egypt?” said the young man, contemptuously,
while he measured me from head to foot.
“Would that I had! Would that I could give whatever years I may have
before me, for those whose every day shall live in history!”
“You are right, young man,” said the old colonel; “they were glorious
times, and a worthy prelude to the greatness that followed them.”
“A bright promise of the future,--never to come,” rejoined the younger,
with a flash of anger on his cheek.
“_Parbleu_, sir, you speak boldly!” said a harsh, low voice from behind.
We turned: it was Napoleon, dressed in a gray coat, all covered with
fur, and looking like one of the couriers of the army. “I did not know
my measures were so freely canvassed as I find them. Who are you, sir?”
“Legrange, Sire, chef d'escadron of the Second Voltigeurs,” said the
young man, trembling from head to foot while he uncovered his head, and
stood, cap in hand, before him.
“Since when, sir, have I called you into my counsels and asked your
advice? or what is it in your position which entitles you to question
one in mine? Duroc, come here. Your sword, sir!”
The young man let fall his shako from his hand, and laid it on his
sword-hilt.
“Ah!” cried the Emperor, suddenly; “what became of your right arm?”
“I left it at Aboukir, Sire.”
Napoleon muttered something between his teeth; then added, aloud,--
“Come, sir, you are not the first whose hand has saved his head. Return
to your duty, and, mark me! be satisfied with doing yours, and leave me
to mine. And you, sir,” said he, turning towards me, and using the same
harsh tone of voice, “I should know your face.”
“Lieutenant Burke, of the Eighth Hussars.”
“Ah! I remember,--the Chouanist. So, sir, it seems that I stand somewhat
higher in your esteem than when you kept company with Messieurs Georges
and Pichegru, eh?”
“No, Sire; your Majesty ever occupied the first place in my admiration
and devotion.”
“_Sacristi!_ then you took a strange way to show it when first I had the
pleasure of your acquaintance. You are on General St. Hilaire's staff?”
“General d'Auvergne's, Sire.”
“True. D'Auvergne, a word with you.”
He turned and whispered something to the old general, who during the
whole colloquy stood at his back, anxious but not daring to interpose a
word.
“Well, well,” said Napoleon, in a voice of much kinder accent, “I
am satisfied. Your general, sir, reports favorably of your zeal and
capacity. I do not desire to let your former conduct prove any bar to
your advancement; and on his recommendation, of which I trust you may
prove yourself worthy, I name you to a troop in your own regiment.”
“And still to serve on my staff?” said the general, half questioning the
Emperor.
“As you wish it, D'Auvergne.”
With that he moved forward ere I could do more than express my gratitude
by a respectful bow.
“I told you, Burke, the time would come for this,” said D'Auvergne, as
he pressed my hand warmly, and followed the cortege of the Emperor.
Hitherto I had lived an almost isolated life. My staff duties had so
separated me from my brother officers that I only knew them by name;
while the other aides-de-camp of the general were men much older than
myself, and with none of them had I formed any intimacy whatever. It
was not without a sense of this loneliness that I now thought over my
promotion. The absence of those who sympathize with our moments of joy
and sorrow reduces our enjoyment to a narrow limit indeed. The only one
of all I knew who would really have felt happy in my advancement was
poor Pioche. He was beyond every thought of pleasure or grief.
Thus reflecting, I turned towards my quarters at Brunn. It was evening:
the watchfires were lighted, and round them sat groups of soldiers at
their supper, chatting away pleasantly, and recounting the events of the
battle. Many had been slightly wounded, and by their bandaged foreheads
and disabled arms claimed a marked pre-eminence above the rest. A
straw bivouac, with its great blazing fire in front, would denote some
officer's quarters; and here were generally some eight or ten assembled,
while the savory odor of some smoking dish, and the merry laughter,
proclaimed that feasting was not excluded from the life of a campaign.
As I passed one of these I heard the tones of a voice which, well known,
had somehow not been heard by me for many a day before. Who could it be?
I listened, but in vain. I asked myself whose was it. I dismounted, and
leading my horse by the bridle, passed before the hut. The strong light
of the blazing wood lit up the interior, and showed me a party of
about a dozen officers, seated and lying on a heap of straw, occupied
in discussing a supper, which, however wanting in all the elegancies of
table equipment, even where I stood had a most appetizing odor. Various
drinking vessels, some of them silver, passed from hand to hand
rapidly; and the clinking of cups proclaimed that, although of different
regiments,--as I saw they were,--a kindly feeling united them.
“Well, François,” said the same voice, whose accents were so familiar to
me without my being able to say why,--“well, Francois, you have not told
us how it happened.”
“Easily enough,” said another; “he broke my blade in his back, and
gave point afterwards and ran me through the chest.” It was the maître
d'armes of the Fourth, my old antagonist, who said this, and I drew near
to hear the remainder. “You could not call the thing unfair,” continued
he; “but, after all, no one ever heard of such a _passe_.”
“I could have told you of it, though,” rejoined the other; “for I
remember once, in the fencing school at the Polytechnique, I saw him
catch his antagonist's blade in his sleeve, and when he had it secure,
snap it across, and then thrust home with his own. _Parbleu!_ he lost a
coat by it; and I believe, at the time, poor fellow, he could ill spare
it.”
This story, which was told of myself, was an incident which occurred in
a school duel, and was only known to two or three others; and again was
I puzzled to think which of my former companions the speaker could be.
My curiosity was now stronger than aught else; and so, affecting to seek
a light for my cigar, I approached the blaze.
“Halloo, Comrade! a cup of wine with you,” cried out a voice from
within; “Melniker is no bad drinking--”
“When Chambertin can't be had,” said another, handing me a goblet of red
wine.
“_Par Saint Denis!_ it's the very man himself,” shouted a third. “Why,
Burke, my old comrade, do you forget Tascher?”
“What!” said I, in amazement, turning from one to the other of the
mustached faces, and unable to discover my former friend, while they
laughed loud and long at my embarrassment.
“Make way for him there; make way, lads! Come, Burke, here's your
place,” said he, stretching out his hand and pressing me down beside him
on the straw. “So you did not remember me?”
In truth, there was enough of change in his appearance since last I saw
him to warrant my forgetfulness. A dark, bushy beard, worn cuirassier
fashion, around the mouth and high on the cheeks, almost concealed his
face, while in figure he had grown both taller and stouter.
“Art colonel of the Eighth Regiment?” said he, laughing; “you know I
promised you were to be, when we were to meet again.”
“No; but, if I mistake not,” said a hussar officer opposite, “monsieur
is in the way to become so. Were you not named to a troop, about half an
hour ago, by the Emperor himself?”
“Yes!” said I, with an effort to suppress my pride.
“_Diantre bleu!_” exclaimed Tascher, “what good fortune you always have
I I wish you joy of it, with all my heart. I say, Comrades, let us drown
his commission for him.”
“Agreed! agreed!” cried they all in a breath. “Francois will make us a
bowl of punch for the occasion.”
“Most willingly,” said the little maître d'armes. “Monsieur le
Capitaine, I am sure, bears me no ill-will for our little affair. I
thought not,” added he, seizing my hand in both his. “_Ma foi!_ you
spoiled my tierce for me; I shall never be the same man again. Now,
gentlemen, pass down the brandy, and let the man with most credit go
seek for sugar at the canteen.”
While François commenced his operations, Tascher proceeded to recount to
me the miserable life he had spent in garrison towns, till the outbreak
of the campaign had called him on active service.
“It was no use that I asked the Empress to intercede for me, and get me
appointed to another regiment; being the nephew of Napoleon seemed to
set a complete bar to my advancement. Even now,” said he, “my name has
been sent forward by my colonel for promotion, and I wager you fifty
Naps I shall be passed over.”
“And what if you be?” said a huge, heavy-browed major beside him; “what
great hardship is it to be a lieutenant in the cuirassiers at two and
twenty? I was a sergeant ten years later.”
“Ay, _parbleu!_” cried another, “I won my epaulettes at Cairo, when
three officers were reported living, in a whole regiment.”
“To be sure,” said François, looking up from his operation of
lemon-squeezing; “here am I, a maître d'armes, after twenty-six years'
service; and there's Davoust, who never could stand before me, he's a
general of brigade.”
The whole party laughed aloud at the grievances of Maître Francois,
whose seriousness on the subject was perfectly real.
“Ah; you may laugh,” said he, half in pique; “but what a mere
accident can determine a man's fortune in life! Would Junot there be a
major-general to-day if he did not measure six feet without his boots?
We were at school together, and, _ma foi!_ he was always at the bottom
of the class.”
“And so, Francois, it was your size, then, that stopped your promotion?”
“Of course it was. When a man is but five feet--with high heels, too--he
can only be advanced as a maître d'armes. _Parbleu!_ what should I be
now if I had only grown a little taller?”
“It is all better as it is,” growled out an old captain, between the
puffs of his meerschaum. “If thou wert an inch bigger, there would be'
no living in the same brigade with thee.”
“For all that,” rejoined Maître François, “I have put many a pretty
fellow his full length on the grass.”
“How many duels, François, did you tell us, the other evening, that you
fought in the Twenty-second?”
“Seventy-eight!” said the little man; “not to speak of two affairs
which, I am ashamed to confess, were with the broadsword; but they were
fellows from Alsace, and they knew no better.”
“_Tonnerre de ciel!_” cried the major, “a little devil like that is
a perfect plague in a regiment. I remember we had a fellow called
Piccotin--”
“Ah! Piccotin; poor Piccotin! We were foster-brothers,” interrupted
Francois; “we were both from Châlons-sur-Marne.”
“Egad! I 'd have sworn you were,” rejoined the major. “One might have
thought ye were twins.”
“People often said so,” responded François, with as much composure as
though a compliment had been intended. “We both had the same colored
hair and eyes, the same military air, and gave the _passe en tierce_
always outside the guard exactly in the same way.”
“What became of Piccotin?” asked the major. “He left us at Lyons.”
“You never heard, then, what became of him?” “No. We knew he joined
the _chasseurs à pied_.” “I can tell you, then,” said Francois; “no one
knows better. I parted from Piccotin when we were ordered to Egypt. We
did our best to obtain service in the same brigade, for we were like
brothers, but we could not manage it; and so, with sad hearts, we
separated,--he to return to France, I to sail for Alexandria. This
was in the spring of 1798, or, as we called it, the year Six of the
Republic. For three years we never met; but when the eighth demi-brigade
returned from Egypt, we went into garrison at Bayonne, and the first man
I saw on the ramparts was Piccotin himself. There was no mistaking him;
you know the way he had of walking with a long stride, rising on his
instep at every step, squaring his elbows, and turning his head from
side to side, just to see if any one was pleased to smile, or even so
much as to look closely at him. Ah, _ma foi!_ little Piccotin knew how
to treat such as well as any one. Methinks I see him approaching his man
with a slide and a bow, and then, taking off his cap, I hear him say, in
his mildest tone, 'Monsieur assuredly did not intend that stare and that
grimace for me. I know I must have deceived myself. Monsieur is only a
fool; he never meant to be impertinent.' Then, _parbleu!_ what a
storm would come on, and how cool was Piccotin the whole time! How
scrupulously timid he would be of misspelling the gentleman's name,
or misplacing an accent over it! How delicately he would inquire his
address, as if the curiosity was only pardonable I And then with what
courtesy he would take his leave, retiring half a dozen paces before
he ventured to turn his back on the man he was determined to kill next
morning!”
“Quite true; perfectly true, Francois,” said the major; “Piccotin did
the thing with the most admirable temper and good-breeding.”
“That was the tone of Chalons when we were both boys,” said François,
proudly; “he and I were reared together.”
He finished a bumper of wine as he made this satisfactory explanation,
and looked round at the company with the air of a conqueror.
“Piccotin saw me as quickly as I perceived him, and the minute after we
were in each other's arms. 'Ah! _mon cher!_ how many?' said he to me, as
soon as the first burst of enthusiasm had subsided.
“'Only eighteen,' said I, sadly; 'but two were Mamelukes of the Guard.'
“'Thou wert ever fortunate, François,' he replied, wiping his eyes with
emotion; 'I have never pinked any but Christians.'
“'Come, come,' said I, 'don't be down-hearted; good times are coming.
They say Le Petit Caporal will have us in England soon.'
“'Mayhap,' said he, sorrowfully, for he could not get over my Turks.
Well, in order to cheer him up a little, I proposed that we should go
and sup together at the 'Grenadier Rouge;' and away we went accordingly.
“It would amuse you, perhaps,” said Maître François, “were I to tell
some of the stories we related to each other at night. We both had
had our share of adventure since we met, and some droll ones among the
number. However, that is not the question at present. We sat late; so
late that they came to close the café at last, and we were obliged to
depart. You know the 'Grenadier Rouge,' don't you?”
“Yes, I know it well,” replied the major; “it's over the glacis, about a
mile outside the barrier.”
“Just so; and there's a pleasant walk across the glacis to the gate. As
Piccotin and I set out together on our way to the town, the night was
calm and mild; a soft moonlight shed a silvery tint over every object,
and left the stately poplars to throw a still longer shadow on the
smooth grass. For some time we walked along without speaking; the
silence of the night, the fragrant air, the mellow light, were all
soft and tranquillizing influences, and we sank each into his own
reflections.
“When we reached the middle of the plain,--you know the spot, I'm sure;
there's a little bronze fountain, with four cedars round it,” (the major
nodded, and he resumed),--“Piccotin came to a sudden halt, and seizing
my hand in both of his, said, 'François, canst thou guess what I 'm
thinking of?'
“I looked at him, and I looked around me, and after a few seconds' pause
I answered, 'Yes, Piccotin, I know it; it is a lovely spot.'
“'Never was anything like it!' cried he, in a rapture; 'look at the
turf, smooth as velvet, and yet soft to the foot; see the trees, how
they fall back to give the light admittance; and there, that little
fountain, if one felt thirsty, eh! What say you?'
“'Agreed,' said I, grasping him by both hands; 'for this once; once
only, Piccotin.'
“'Only once, François; a few passes, and no more.'
“'Just so; the first touch.'
“'Exactly; the first touch,' said he, as, taking off his cloak, and
folding it neatly, he laid it on the grass.
“It was a strange thing, but in all our lives, from earliest boyhood up,
we never had measured swords together; and though we were both maîtres
d'armes, we never crossed blades, even in jest. Often and often had our
comrades pitted us against each other, and laid wagers on the result,
but we never would consent to meet; I cannot say why. It was not fear; I
know not how to account for it, but such was the fact.
“'What blade do you wear, François?' said he, approaching me, as I
arranged my jacket and vest, with my cap, on the ground.
“'A Rouen steel,' said I; 'too limber for most men, but I am so
accustomed to it, I prefer it.'
“'Ah! a pretty weapon indeed,' said he, drawing it from the scabbard,
and making one or two passes with it against an elder trunk. 'Was this
the blade you had with you in Egypt?'
“'Yes; I have worn none other for eight years.'
“'Ah, _ma foi!_ those Mamelukes. How I envy you those Mamelukes!' he
muttered to himself, as he walked back to his place.
“'Move a little, a very little, to the left; there's a shadow from that
tree. Can you see me well?' said I.
“'Perfectly; are you ready? Well; _en garde!_'
“Piccotin's forte, I soon saw, lay in the long meditated attack, where
each movement was part of an artfully devised series; and I perceived
that he suffered his adversary to gain several trifling advantages, by
way of giving him a false confidence, biding his own time to play off
the scores. In this description of fence he was more than my equal.
_My_ strength was in the skirmishing passages, where most men lunge at
random; then, no matter how confused the rally, I was as cool as in the
salute.
“For some time I permitted him to play his game out; and certainly
nothing could be more beautiful than his passes over the hilt. Twice he
planted his point within an inch of my bosom; and nothing but a spring
backwards would have saved me.
“At length, after a long-contested struggle, he made a feint within, and
then without, the guard, and succeeded in touching my sword-arm, above
the wrist.
“'A touch, I believe,' said he.
“'A mere nothing,' said I; for although I felt the blood running down
my sleeve, and oozing between my fingers, I was annoyed to think he had
made the first hit.
“'Ah, François, these Mamelukes were not of the première
force, after all. I have only been jesting all this time; see here.'
With that he closed on me, in a very different style from his former
attack. Pushing and parrying with the rapidity of lightning, he evinced
a skill in 'skirmish' I did not believe him possessed of. In this,
however, I was his master; and in a few seconds gave him my point
sharply, but not deeply, in the shoulder. Instead of dropping his
weapon when he received mine, he returned the thrust. I parried it,
and touched him again, a little lower down. He winced this time, and
muttered something I could not catch. 'You shall have it now,' said he,
aloud; 'I owe you this,--and this.' True to his word, he twice pierced
me in the back, outside the guard. Encouraged by success, he again
closed on me; while I, piqued by his last assault, advanced to meet him.
“Our tempers were both excited; but his far more than mine. The struggle
was a severe one. Three several times his blade passed between my arm
and my body; and at last after a desperate rally, he dropped on one
knee, and gave me the point here, beneath the chest. Before he could
extricate his blade, I plunged mine into his chest, and pushed till I
heard the hilt come clink against his ribs. The blood spurted upwards,
over my face and breast, as he fell backwards. I wiped it hurriedly from
my eyes, and bent over him. He gave a shudder and a little faint moan,
and all was still.”
“You killed him?” cried out three or four of us together.
“_Ma foi!_ yes. The 'coup' was mortal; he never stirred after. As for
me,” continued Francois, “I surrendered myself a prisoner to the
officer on guard at the gate. I was tried ten days after by a military
commission, and acquitted. My own evidence was my accusation
and my defence.”
“_Ventrebleu!_ had I been on the court-martial, you had not been here
to tell the story,” said the old major, as his face became almost purple
with passion.
“Nonsense!” said Tascher, jeeringly. “What signifies a maître d'armes
the more or the less?”
“Monsieur will probably explain himself,” said François, with one of his
cold smiles of excessive deference.
“It is exactly what I mean to do, François.”
“Come, sirs, none of this,” broke in the major. “Lieutenant Tascher,
you may not fancy being placed under an arrest when the enemy is in the
field. Master Francois, do you forget the sentence of a court-martial is
hanging over your head for an affair at Elchingen, where you insulted a
young officer of the hussars?”
“In that case I must be permitted to say that Maître François conducted
himself like a man of honor,” said I.
“_Parbleu!_ and got the worst of it besides,” cried he, placing his hand
on his hip. The tone of his voice as he said this, and the grimace he
made, restored the party once more to good-humor, and we chatted away
pleasantly till day was breaking.
As Tascher strolled along with me towards my quarters, I was rejoiced
to discover that he had never heard of my name as being mixed up in the
Chouan conspiracy; nor was he aware with how little reason he believed
me to be favored by fortune.
I received, however, all his congratulations without any desire to
undeceive him. Already had I learned the worldly lesson, that while
friends cling closer in adversity, your mere acquaintance deems your
popularity your greatest merit; and I at length perceived that, however
ungenial in many respects the companionship, the life of isolation I
led had rendered me suspected by others, and in a career, too, where
frankness was considered the first of virtues.
I assented at once with pleasure to the prospect of our meeting
frequently while in camp. My own regiment had joined Davoust's corps,
and I was glad to have the society of some others of my own age, if only
to wean myself from my habits of solitude. While I formed these plans
for the future, I little anticipated what events were in store for
me, nor how soon I should be thrown among scenes and people totally
different from those with which I had ever mixed before.
“You mess with us, then, Burke,--that's agreed,” said Tascher. “They 're
excellent fellows, these cuirassiers of ours, and I know you 'll like
them.”
With this promise we parted, hoping to meet on the morrow.