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.
[Illustration: BrownePartingScene ]
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!