"Come, Sir, come; why this demeanor? These persons attend here by the
orders of the Empress. She would make a present to one of her ladies,
whose fete day is on the morrow."
The officer, without further parley, entered the particulars on his
tablets; then moved aside to allow the men to pass, the lady leading the
way. Following her they quickly traversed the garden, taking the path
that led towards the "Bassin de Fer a Cheval." Thence, taking an avenue
that bore southwards and lay parallel to the Seine, they emerged, after
a short walk, upon an open space, whose center was occupied by a lofty
tower, a replica of the monument of Lysicrates at Athens, recently
erected by the Emperor.
Before this the lady halted. Then, opening a door, she invited them to
enter. "The Empress is within," she said, "and is expecting you."
They passed into a room lighted by wax candles placed in sconces, and
furnished with a rustic table and garden seats; and there were many
windows in it.
At one of these, that faced the door, Josephine was seated. She was
wearing a white evening gown, heavily embroidered with gold; a lovely
and fascinating woman still, though at this time she was entering her
tenth lustrum.
At their entrance she turned her face to her visitors--for she had been
looking out of the window--and addressed them in a pleasant tone:--"Ah!
gentlemen, I am glad you have arrived; I was beginning to fear you would
disappoint me."
Both men bowed low, and St. Just made answer, "We made all speed, Your
Majesty, and it has but this moment struck the hour at which you bade us
come."
"Is that so?" rejoined the Empress. "Then I have been unreasonably
impatient. But, when events of moment are in the balance, a weak woman
may be pardoned for feeling thus. We are not fashioned to control
ourselves like men."
"For which the good God be thanked," put in St. Just.
She shook her head at him reprovingly, but smiling archly; which showed
that his speech had not displeased her. Then she addressed the lady.
"Hermionie, you may take a stroll, or, if you prefer it, you may retire
for the night. I shall not require your further services, and I have
business with these gentlemen."
The lady, who had removed her shawl, displaying to St. Just a lovely
face, dropped a low curtsey to the Empress, and withdrew. "The night is
warm," she said, "I will take a stroll in the garden."
When the door had closed behind her, Josephine turned eagerly to the two
men. "Now, gentlemen," she said, "let me hear the business you would
discuss with me."
"Madame," replied St. Just, and he advanced to her and held out the
charm she had given him in her husband's presence nearly ten years
before; "unworthy though I am of the honor, I crave permission to recall
myself to your remembrance by this token."
The sight of what he showed her had a strong effect upon her. Surprise
and doubt and joy, all were printed on her countenance. Gradually
doubt, and then surprise, died out of her face, and only delight
remained. For, changed, though he was, she knew him. Again, for the
third time, she had met the man who, without meaning it, had touched her
heart at their first interview; whom she scarce durst acknowledge to
herself she loved; whose life, by reason of that love, she had
intervened to save.
"St. Just!" she panted. "It is, indeed, then you." Then, her voice
still trembling with emotion, she turned to old Abdallah. "Leave us, my
friend, I pray you, leave us. I would see Mons. St. Just alone."
The old man withdrew.
St. Just threw himself on his knees before her; then he seized her hand
and covered it with kisses, she making no endeavor to release it.
"My Queen! My Empress!" he exclaimed with fervor. "By the memory of
those halcyon days in the Forest of Fontainebleau when, in the guise of
a woodcutter, I dwelt near you and feasted my eyes upon your grace and
loveliness; when you would wander to my lonely hut, and our souls would
commune in--dare I say it--love; in remembrance of those moments, I
beseech you hear me."
He looked languishingly at Josephine and, for the time being, felt that
he meant every word he said.
The Empress colored slightly in pleased confusion. "Two years ago," she
murmured and she dropped her eyes; for in her, too, there was some
make-believe. Then, as though the words had dropped from her unawares,
she added, "Hush, I must not listen to such words, and you, Henri, must
not utter them. Besides, foolish fellow, you know you do not mean
them."
Now what more encouragement than this could a man desire? His
protestations of affection were redoubled. "Nay, but by Heaven, I do,
all and more."
"Stop, I beseech you. I cannot hear you; to do so would be
dishonorable, as it is for you to speak in such a strain. Nay, you will
anger me, if you proceed."
She was beginning to be fearful of herself; his words had moved her
strangely. "But what has happened," she went on tenderly, "that has
wrought this change in your appearance; a change so great that at first
I failed to recognize you? You look years older than when last we met.
Then your hair was black as the raven's wing; now it is fast whitening;
you must have suffered much!" And, moved by the impulse of her gentle
heart, without thinking what she did, she laid her hand upon his head
and lightly stroked his hair.
St. Just leaped quickly to his feet and made as though he would have
taken her in his arms. "You mistake me, Sir," she said, her breast
heaving with agitation; "and you forget yourself and who and what I am.
You must be mad, if you cannot distinguish between a woman's sympathy,
and love. Restrain yourself, or this interview must end at once. Now
tell me what is the matter on which you desired so urgently to see me;
and I will pardon what has gone before."
At that moment, had not their minds been so intent on one another, they
might have heard the sound of approaching footsteps; but love is often
deaf, as well as blind.
"I have traveled night and day from the seat of war, to give you news
that will cause you great unhappiness and destroy your peace of mind.
But my sole reason is the hope that, being warned, you may be enabled to
take measures to avert what is impending."
He paused before proceeding, to give the Empress time to prepare herself
for what he had to say. She had an inkling of it, for vague rumors had
reached her ears. But his words alarmed her greatly; her cheeks
blanched, her features stiffened and a look of terror started to her
eyes. For a moment she gazed at him, motionless and with parted lips.
Then, "What is it?" she panted. "Tell me. Do not keep me in suspense;
that I cannot bear. Do not fear for me; whatever it is, I shall make no
scene. Only let me hear the worst at once. But, I fear, I greatly fear
I guess it."
"The Emperor has tired of you and is meditating a divorce, and an
alliance with the daughter of the Emperor of Austria."
Two persons, a man and woman, had just seated themselves below the
window. Both started when they heard the words that had fallen from St.
Just, and the woman would have uttered an exclamation; but the man
instantly placed his hand before her mouth and whispered, "Hush!
Hermionie, hush!"
St. Just continued, "Nay more, I know that both Talleyrand and Fouche
have received instructions on the subject."
The Empress gazed at him in terror, grief and entreaty in her eyes. At
first she seemed bereft of speech. But, in a few moments, she replied,
"Alas! I feared he was losing his affection for me; but that he should
contemplate divorcing me--such villainy I never dreamed of. But it
cannot be; surely the laws of France would not permit it."
"I fear the laws of France will avail but little against Napoleon,"
replied St. Just. "At present he is France and can make such laws as
suit him."
"Oh! I cannot believe it. Why, I am all the world to Napoleon. It is
impossible that he could be so base, after his ardent protestations of
affection."
She was trying to persuade herself that what she said was true; but
intuitively she knew the contrary. For facts and rumors kept crowding
to her mind, all tending to confirm the dreadful news. The vague
stories of her husband's infidelities; his cold treatment and occasional
cruel taunts when he found he had no hope of her giving him an heir; all
these recollections flashed upon her now with added force, and murdered
hope.
But, woman-like, she turned on her informant.
"Base traitor!" she exclaimed, "because I was weak enough to let you see
that I have for you the sentiments of a friend, you dare to come to me
and breathe slanders against my husband."
But she knew they were not slanders, and her momentary rage died out;
St. Just was not to blame. She sank into a seat--for she had been
standing--and sobbed without restraint.
At this juncture, the listeners outside the window moved away. The
woman had risen first, and the man had tried to check her; but she had
whispered angrily, "I will not be an eavesdropper," and had stepped
away, and he had been obliged to follow her.
St. Just waited in silence until her tears had somewhat lessened. Then
he spoke:
"Josephine, there is a chance of averting this calamity. What I have
told you is absolutely true; but I can give you further news that, if
judiciously employed, may turn Napoleon from his purpose. Listen; the
Emperor of Russia and Talleyrand have come to the conclusion that
England is their best ally, and are plotting to bring such an alliance
into being. Moreover, Europe is secretly arming for the struggle with
Napoleon. It may not come just yet, but it must come soon. Now, if you
should warn the Emperor of all this, he might be grateful and, out of
gratitude, abandon his intention of divorcing you. Read these papers,
and you will see that I have grounds for what I say."
The Empress dried her tears and took the papers he handed to her; then
settled herself to their perusal. They confirmed every word St. Just
had uttered.
"Have you pen and ink and paper?" she said, when she had finished. He
reopened the despatch box from which he had taken the papers, and handed
her what she asked for.
She seated herself at the table and began to write, not as a suppliant,
but as one who was conveying valuable information and stood firmly on
her rights. Her exalted status gave her confidence. Her letter was
lengthy and took some time in writing, and, meanwhile, not a word was
exchanged between them. St. Just had thrown himself into a chair, and
waited patiently.
At last she had disburdened her mind, and the scratching of the pen was
stopped. She took the papers St. Just had given her, and tied them all
together, with her own letter on the top. Then, on another sheet of
paper, she scribbled the following words:
"On the Emperor's service. The bearer is a courier from the Empress.
All who can are to help him in the name of France. Josephine."
This she sealed with her own seal and handed, with the packet of papers,
to St. Just.
"There, I can do no more," she said. "God grant it may have the result
I hope. Hide your very fastest," she continued; "lose not a moment by
the way. You must reach Napoleon, ere he has had time to move in this
nefarious scheme. And remember that the heart of the Empress goes with
you to the Emperor."
"And dare I hope," he answered, "that the heart of Josephine goes with
me too?"
She threw him a captivating glance, and smiled archly. Frivolous, and
with no deep-seated feeling, as she was, the letter had revived her
spirits, and she had persuaded herself that all would now be well.
"Foolish boy," she answered merrily. "Come and see me the moment you
have achieved your errand, and you will find that Josephine is not
ungrateful."
And with this he was compelled to be content.
Near the cascade, already mentioned, the man and the woman, who had
overheard part of the conversation between the Empress Josephine and St.
Just, were seated on a rustic bench. Their attitude, proclaimed that
they were lovers, for the man's arm was round her waist, and her head
was resting lovingly against his shoulder.
"Peace, Hermionie, peace, I say," the man said sharply. "I will hear no
more. I repeat, it is for the good of the State. It must be done.
Besides, the Emperor desires it; that suffices me!"
She turned from him petulantly like some spoilt child.
"It is cruel, it is unjust," she said, "and I hate cruelty and
injustice, and will do all I can to oppose them. I repeat, I will tell
the Empress what we have overheard, what was not intended for our ears.
And Colonel Tremeau, I command you to keep secret what you have learned
to-night." Then, in a softer tone, "Nay, I am wrong to use that tone.
Dear Charles, if you love me, keep it secret."
Few men could have resisted her pleading tone, and still fewer gazed
into her lovely face, without yielding to its entreaty; but this man was
selfish and self-seeking to the core.
"You will do as you like," he answered in a hard, decisive tone, "as to
telling the Empress; but," and he paused to emphasize what he was
saying, "in that case, our marriage will not take place."
His cold, impassive tones sent an icy chill to his hearer's heart. His
words seemed to admit of no appeal.
"Charles!" the girl faltered, "Oh! you must; I have your promise. After
having taken advantage of my love, in a moment's weakness, and robbed me
of that which a maiden holds most dear, you could not be so cruel, so
dishonorable as to desert me, after what I have told you."
She shook with her emotion and burst into a flood of tears. Then she
threw her soft white arms around his neck and kissed him passionately,
as though to coax from him the concession that was her right.
For all his selfishness, the man was touched by this exhibition of
despair and, to console her for the moment, he replied:
"There, there; don't weep, cherie. It shall be as you wish. I will
give you the shelter of my name; it is your due. So dry your eyes, my
darling; they do not become your pretty face. Trust your Charles. I
will see that no one shall speak lightly of you."
His words were fair enough, but whether he would make them good the
future should decide. All that he cared for now was to make her
amenable to his will, with as little fuss as needs be. She was in his
power, and he knew that she was bound to yield.
And she, poor trusting fool, believed, and the smiles broke through her
tears.
"No, no," she said, "the world must never say that Hermionie de Vannes
is less virtuous than she should be. And I never really doubted you, my
Charles; I knew you were a man of honor and would be true to me. Kiss
me, dearest, and say you are not angry with me, and forgive me that I
ever seemed to doubt you; I will be guided wholly by you. I will do
anything you wish, and say nothing to the Empress."
"Now you're my own little girl again," he said condescendingly, and he
kissed her warmly.
"Hermionie! Hermionie! where are you?"
It was the Empress's voice across the garden calling her.
"The Empress," said the man. "Good night, my sweet; sleep soundly and
dream of me; don't let your loving heart be troubled with anxious
thoughts. All will be well with you."
He kissed her again, then sprang away into the darkness; and Hermionie
hastened to the tower, where she found the Empress with St. Just
standing by her side. It was on the verge of dawn, and they were gazing
silently upon the view. Below them in the distance the Seine meandered,
and to their left the bridge of St. Cloud could be just discerned.
The Empress was the first to speak.
"See, the clouds are breaking, the mists disperse, another day is
dawning. We can just begin to see the green tops of the trees in the
wood (the Bois de Boulogne); and yonder is Butte Montmartre, its summit
crowned with those aged trees. Oh! how beautiful! And how fresh is
everything in nature when the sun first wakes the world! See the first
glimmer of his rays reflected far away on the dome of the Invalides.
And now one can discern the shadowy forms of the houses of Paris
emerging into view, as the mist floats slowly away. Ah! Paris, dear
delightful, thoughtless, witty, restless, lively Paris, how I love you.
But you are cruel too. Tell me my fate, you complex City. Will my
Emperor return to me?"
She stretched her arms out appealingly to the slumbering city.
The birds were wakening into life and beginning to twitter amongst the
shrubs; and some were already breaking into song. A lark was making
melody in the sky above, carolling his earliest matins with joyous
notes, trilling a welcome to the new-born day.
"Nature herself replies to your Majesty's behest," put in St. Just.
"That bird forecasts your fate. Your life is to be one unending song."
He leaned forward and took her hand; then raised it to his lips.
"I would it might be so," she sighed; "but my mind misgives me. Come,
Hermionie, it is time we sought our beds, if all the Palace is not to
know of our proceedings. And you, sir," turning to St. Just, "ought not
to tarry. I fear you will altogether miss your rest."
Once more he bent low over the Empress's hand. "In your service,
Madame," he said gallantly, "I desire no rest. To do your will is a
recreation in itself. And I pledge my word not to lay head to pillow,
until I have handed your mission to the Emperor. Farewell, Madame,
until I have redeemed my word."
She gave his hand a meaning pressure and whispered in his ear,
"Farewell, and may God keep you. My heart goes with you, my true
knight, my--lover!"
An hour later, he had started for the frontier, and was riding for all
that he was worth; wholly unconscious that Colonel Tremeau had been
closeted with the Palace Marshal detailing what he had overheard; and
that, in consequence, the news was already on its way to Bounaparte.
*CHAPTER IV.*
It was night, a few days later. From above in the spangled heavens the
silver moon was shedding her softened beams upon the expiring camp
fires; and along the range of hills, the bugle notes rang out, above the
murmur of the camp, the order, "All lights out;" the signal for the
wearied army to seek forgetfulness and repose in sleep.
Away to the left, from the burning village of Wagram flames ever and
anon shot up, lighting the country round and casting a ruddy glow upon a
tent pitched on a mound round which the French army was encamped. Above
the tent, the emblem of France's glory, the tricolor flapped and floated
in the breeze. At frequent intervals, two grenadiers of the Imperial
Guard, who were pacing to and fro before the tent, paused in their
sentry-go to listen anxiously; for on the right of the French lines,
hard by the silver streak that marked the river Danube, the distant boom
of artillery and the fainter rattle of musketry could be heard. Already
then, the fighting had begun.
Within the tent sat the master of these legions. Untiringly, while all
around him slept, he worked. He was writing, with feverish haste, at
the desk that lay open upon the table, the dim lantern casting its
feeble rays upon the pale, impressive face, and reflecting just a
glimmer on the gilt buttons and epaulets of the green and red Chasseur
uniform he wore.
Occasionally he paused to think, and, at such moments, his glance fell
on the sleeping secretary, who was, doubtless, dreaming of his cherished
wife and children away in sunny France.
"Pauvre enfant!" muttered the Emperor, and resumed his writing.
Suddenly he threw down his pen and rose to his feet; then stretched his
limbs. He was cramped with long-continued writing. His sensitive ear
had caught the sound of the firing, and he stepped quickly to the
opening of the tent.
The noise grew louder, and he could even sniff the smoke from powder.
Evidently the engagement was extending, and might jeopardize his
position. An anxious look appeared upon his face. He turned his head
within, and his eye traveled quickly round the tent and lighted on a
long blue cloak that lay across his camp bed. This he threw over his
shoulders; then, having buckled on his sword, he left the tent.
At sight of him, the two grenadiers presented arms. He carelessly
acknowledged their salute, and then began to pace up and down the little
plateau before the tent. As was usual with him when deep in thought,
his hands were crossed behind his back, and his chin was bent down upon
his breast.
Hour succeeded hour, midnight came and went; and in the East the first
gray streaks of dawn appeared, but still Napoleon maintained his
monotonous tramp before his tent, pausing occasionally to listen.
At last, angry and impatient, he left his post and started with rapid
strides to walk towards the advanced Guard.
Few men unused to the intricacies of the camp, covering at it did,
several square miles, could have found their way thither without a
guide, but Napoleon walked on unerringly. He seemed to know every inch
of the ground.
At last, he paused in his solitary tramp, and halted, for a few moments,
by a belt of trees, the silver-blue waters of the Danube flowing swiftly
almost at his feet.
A short way down the river was a picket stationed to guard a small
footbridge, and he could see the soldiers sitting by the fire, and,
borne to him by the freshening breeze, he could hear their merry peals
of laughter and occasional exclamations, called forth by some amusing
story. He was amazed at their lightheartedness, when they knew that a
battle was impending, and angered at the laxity with which their guard
was kept. He stamped his foot, and in his face there came a look that
boded ill for the commander of the picket.
"Fools!" he muttered. "Is it thus they keep their watch! Where is their
officer?"
And the Emperor was just starting towards the group to learn the answer
to his question, when something occurred that roused the laughing,
chattering picket and brought them to their feet.
A horseman dashed across the narrow bridge. He was riding for his life,
which each moment seemed to place in greater jeopardy, for in hot
pursuit of him were some thirty Austrians. Mounted on white horses and
with their white uniforms, they looked in the dim light like specters.
They were gaining rapidly on the flying man, for his horse was almost
done, and theirs seemed fresh enough.
The Emperor caught sight of what was going on, and made his way quickly
to the picket. Meanwhile, all was bustle with them. The men had sprung
to their feet and formed themselves into some sort of order to receive
the enemy, whom they much outnumbered.
Meantime, the fugitive kept advancing, urging, by whip and spur, his
jaded steed to greater efforts. Safety seemed almost in his grasp, and,
encouraged by the presence of his compatriots, he waved his hand aloft,
and shouted, "France and the Emperor!"
The picket cheered in response, and, with cries of "Vive l'Empereur,"
rushed to meet their foe. Then both sides went at it pell mell; shots
were fired, but these soon ceased when the combatants got to close
quarters; then it became a hand to hand struggle between swords and
bayonets, and cuts and thrusts were freely exchanged, to the
accompaniment of shouts and cheers from those who were unhurt, and
groans from the wounded and the dying. Other Austrians swam their
horses across the river to the assistance of their comrades, and, for
the moment, despite the stubborn resistance of the French, who yielded
only inch by inch, victory inclined to the attacking side. But soon
reinforcements poured in on the French side, and the engagement raged
more furiously than ever. For a short space the outpost seemed in
danger, for Austrian troops on the other side of the river were
collecting and hurrying across. But at this juncture, just when affairs
were looking critical for Napoleon's men, some guns from the heights in
possession of the French opened fire, sweeping the plains across the
Danube. The hailstorm of grape and canister was murderous, and, there
being no shelter for them, the Austrians first wavered and then
incontinently took to flight. The small body on this side of the river
were thus isolated, and could make no further stand against the dash and
elan of the French. So the retreat was sounded and the survivors of
them galloped across the bridge, followed by a storm of musket shots
from the victorious enemy, that brought many a white uniform to the
dust. Few of them, indeed, regained their comrades. The whole affair
had occupied but a few minutes, and Napoleon, who had mounted a
trooper's horse, and ridden up to the picket at the outset, had sat
watching it immovably throughout.
When all was over, the flying horseman, who had so narrowly escaped
capture, gained his side. Then, reining in his panting charger, he
saluted.
"Whence come you, Sir," asked the Emperor sternly.
"From France, Sire, with despatches, marked immediate, from the
Empress," was the prompt reply.
"Follow me to my tent, if your horse can carry you so far. Then I will
see that the Empress's communication receives attention." And, to suit
his pace to the new-comer's, he moved on at a walk, the other in his
wake.
Arrived at the tent, Napoleon woke his secretary; he wanted him to write
his answer to Josephine's despatch.
St. Just, for he was the courier who had so nearly lost his life, had
not expected to find another person present, and felt embarrassed.
Knowing the subject of the Empress's communication, he wished to have
his interview with the Emperor alone. He hesitated for a moment, and
then said deprecatingly:--"The Empress strictly charged me, Sire, to
give you these papers when you were alone."
At the same time he held out the packet. Surprise and anger at the
speaker's boldness in daring to criticise his actions, showed on
Napoleon's face.
"My secretary does not count," he answered sharply.
"In the Empress's eyes I think he does, Sire," rejoined St. Just,
astonished, and at the same time, fearful at his own temerity.
There was silence for a few moments, and the Emperor gave him a look
that made him tremble. He seemed on the point of letting his passion
have its fling; but suddenly his expression changed, and he said
deliberately, "The Empress's wishes are my commands." Then to the
secretary, "Leave us."
So soon as the secretary had departed, the Emperor snatched the packet
from St. Just and then, for the first time, became aware of his
identity. He started in surprise, for he had believed that his former
aide-de-camp was dead--killed at Trafalgar, as it had been reported.
"Hah!" he exclaimed. "You, again! Then you were not hanged by that
cursed English Admiral. What means this continual game of hide and
seek? You seem to be gifted with the cat's tenacity of life. But I
will inquire into your affairs anon. At present Her Majesty's despatch
demands my notice."
He cut the silken cord that bound the papers, seated himself at a table
and opened them out before him; then conned them carefully. Meanwhile,
St. Just stood motionless and silent; but his brain was active; there
was much to move it; he realized that he was in deadly peril, and knew
that his life depended on the Emperor's mood.
Presently the Emperor started to his feet and, taking no notice of St.
Just, went to a despatch box in the corner, and from it took a document.
This also he read carefully, comparing it with some of the papers St.
Just had brought. He threw it down upon the table with an angry "Pish!"
Then he called out sharply, "Guard!"
There was a hurried movement outside the tent; then a file of soldiers
came in view and drew up, motionless as statues, before the opening.
The Emperor, without moving from the table, addressed the sergeant. "Go
to my secretary's tent and tell the officer who brought the last
despatch to attend me instantly. Should he not be there, he must be
sought until you find him."
The sergeant saluted and withdrew.
Then Napoleon went again to the despatch box; this time he took from it
two miniatures.
At the one he looked at first, his face took on an expression of mingled
affection and regret. It was the counterfeit presentment of the Empress
Josephine, taken many years before; and the painter had been happy in
his conception, for, though he had not actually sacrificed truth to
flattery in any single feature, yet he had, somehow, so idealized the
whole, as to depict a marvelously lovely face, that certainly surpassed
in fascination the original. She seemed to be just opening her mouth to
speak; one could almost see the lips in motion; and the eyes and every
feature were instinct with the vivacity which was her greatest charm.
The Emperor gazed at it for a minute. Then, "No, no," he muttered; "it
is useless." He sighed, then laid the miniature, lovingly and
reluctantly, as it seemed, upon the table.
Then he took up the other, and this also he subjected to a long and
earnest scrutiny. It was the portrait of a much younger woman--a mere
girl in fact--with far less pretentions to feminine attractions than had
Josephine. This was the Archduchess Marie Louise, the daughter of
Napoleon's most stubborn foe: but, for all that, chosen by the great
conquerer to be his wife, so soon as he should have freed himself from
his present matrimonial claims.
With fear and trembling, and a sickening feeling at his heart, St. Just
stood watching every movement, and scanning every feature of Napoleon;
but to the mood of the man within, the stern, impassive countenance gave
no clue. Hope was not wholly dead in St. Just, but despair predominated.
A quick, military step was heard approaching, and, immediately
afterwards, an officer entered the tent, first pausing at the entrance
to salute the Emperor.
A glance sufficed to show St. Just that his journey had been fruitless.
The dread, muttered words "Too late" penetrated to his brain, and all
the heart went out of him. The newcomer was Colonel Tremeau, the
officer he had met a few days before in the garden at St. Cloud. He
guessed that his conversation with the Empress had been overheard. He
must have traveled post haste in order to outstrip him--and he had
succeeded.
Napoleon noted the surprise and terror of St. Just, and a cruel smile
began to flit about his face--the smile that did not betoken approval of
the person whom it felt, but was, rather, devilish, and calculated to
fill the stoutest heart with dread.
"You know this gentleman, Mons. St. Just," he said, and his tone was
cold and calm. "You should have ridden faster. You did not know it was
a race. Your rival came in first. Your information was forestalled;
your plot has failed."
St. Just was almost dumbfounded; words seemed to fail him; he had no
time to think; still he must say something. Pale as death and not
knowing what he did say, he stammered:
"Sire, permit me a word, one word I beseech you,"
"Say on, but make your words as few as possible."
"There is no plot, Sire," resumed the luckless emissary; "I have ridden
here without resting by the way, at the Empress's express commands, to
convey to you intelligence that Her Majesty thought vital to France and
you. The papers that came into her hands and that she charged me to
deliver to your Majesty, seemed to show that our country is in danger.
England is on the point of joining hands with Russia; all Europe is
rising secretly against you. Your armies are retreating everywhere in
Spain.
"You hold in your hand, Sire, the proofs of the duplicity and worse, of
Talleyrand and Fouche. Think you that they would wish to part you from
the Empress, save for their own ends?"
He paused, appalled at his own audacity.
"By Heavens, Sir," the Emperor stormed, and he sprang to his feet, and
stamped with rage, "you presume too far. I will submit no longer to your
insolence. I will have you shot. Colonel Tremeau, arrest that man."
Colonel Tremeau made a step forward to obey the Emperor's command, but
paused when the other raised his hand and addressed Napoleon.
"Pause one moment, Sire," he said, "and consider what you would do. I
have the Empress's safe conduct. Surely you would not stain your honor
as a soldier and a man by laying a finger on a peaceful envoy."
Then, to do him justice, more concerned for Josephine than for himself,
distracted at the thought of her pain at receiving no reply to her
appeal, and at the suspicion that he had betrayed her, he went down on
one knee before Napoleon, and besought him to weigh carefully the
serious news in the despatches. "Arrest me, Sire," he concluded; "kill
me, if you will; but save the Empress and yourself."
"Possibly the Empress would rather save her paramour," interjected
Colonel Tremeau sneeringly.
At this, Napoleon turned round suddenly to the last speaker, his face
convulsed with rage, and from his eyes fire seemed to flash.
"What mean you, Sir?" he shouted. "Explain your vile innuendo
instantly, or you, too, shall be arrested."
Thus challenged, Tremeau told of St. Just's midnight visit to St. Cloud
and of what he had overheard there. St. Just listened to him in silence,
and, listening, thought it was all over with him. He could not but
admit to himself that Tremeau stated fairly what had taken place. He
showed no animus, spoke calmly and dispassionately, and put no false
color on the truth. Also it became plain that Tremeau had not heard
all; he must have gone before the interview with Josephine was over.
Poor though it was, this was some slight consolation.
When the officer had finished his account, at first the Emperor said
nothing. He took the miniature of Josephine from the table and threw it
on the ground; then stamped upon it, grinding it to fragments under his
heel. Then, his features working unceasingly and his hands clenching
and unclenching in his fury, he called out, "Guard!"
The file appeared with their sergeant at their head. He gathered up the
despatches and crumpled them together; then passed them to the sergeant.
"Burn these papers at once. Stay, I will see you do it."
He strode rapidly outside the tent to a camp fire a few yards off; then
flung the papers into it. St. Just had stepped outside the tent and
been a silent watcher of the scene. The Emperor strode up to him. "Go,
Sir, to the Empress," he said sternly, "and tell her what you have seen.
That is my answer to her letter and enclosures. As for you," and he
looked St. Just contemptuously from head to foot, "I give Her Majesty
credit for better taste, than to place on Colonel Tremeau's words the
construction they might bear. You have mistaken condescension for a
sentiment that implies equality. The lion's consort mates only with her
kind, and could find no attraction in a cur."
At this moment an officer of high rank galloped up, his charger flecked
with foam; he drew rein when he reached Napoleon.
"The Austrians are advancing, Sire,"--he brought the words out
breathlessly--"and the men are impatient to attack." The change in the
Emperor's face was almost magical; the rage that had contorted it had
vanished like a flash, at the officer's first words, and now there was a
glow of pleasure on it; the impassiveness was gone, and the light of
anticipated victory was in his eye. He forgot the man who had so raised
his ire, and even Josephine.
"This is welcome news," he answered joyously; "we will give them a
lesson for their rashness. Return, Marshal, instantly, and let the
advance be sounded. I will be with you before they get to work." Then
he turned to Colonel Tremeau. "Leave me now, Sir, I will see you after
the battle. At present I would be alone."
The Marshal rode away and Tremeau withdrew.
Napoleon re-entered his tent, and St. Just, from the outside, saw him
bring the portrait of the Austrian Arch-duchess to his lips, while the
Frenchwoman's lay shattered at his feet.
Then Josephine's envoy moved away. He was sick at heart, chafing at
Napoleon's contemptuous words, and despondent at the utter failure of
his mission. How he should break the news to Josephine, he scarce durst
think.
Meanwhile, the Emperor rode forth to beat the Austrians. History tell us
how, throughout that long and hard fought day, wherever the fight was
thickest and the danger greatest, he was to be found. Perchance, he
hoped that some stray bullet would still that conscience that was vainly
telling him that what he meditated against Josephine was a hideous
crime.
*CHAPTER V.*
Nearly five months had passed since the battle of Wagram had been fought
and won; since the momentous interview between the Emperor and St. Just
that had resulted so disastrously for Josephine. Then it had been warm,
sunny June, the sky one sheet of azure; now it was the last day in
November, when all was chill and dreary, and a dark pall hung over
everything. It was a day on which even a Mark Tapley would have found
it hard to preserve his spirits.
The action of the drama had been shifted from Austria to France, and the
scene on which the curtain was now to rise was the Palace of
Fontainebleau.
Here, on the evening of the aforesaid day in November, Josephine, still
Empress, but not long to be, was pacing, restlessly and with agitated
mien, the floor of her private apartment. She was still beautiful, but
the sadness of her face, and the look almost of terror in it were
painful to behold. Just so might have looked Mary, Queen of Scots, on
her way to execution. She was royally attired, and the aid of every
feminine art had been invoked to enhance the many charms she had, and to
create the few she lacked. A diamond tiara sparkled on her head, and
over her shoulders, to protect them from the draughts, was thrown a
violet velvet mantle studded with the imperial bees, the Emperor
affected.
The infinite pains to make herself attractive, had been taken for him,
for he was momentarily expected. He had arrived some hours before from
Paris, but they had not yet met.
Prepared by St. Just, as she had been, for the last three months for the
coming interview--he had informed her of the failure of his errand to
her husband--now that the moment for it was close at hand, she was
filled with trepidation; and, though she had been anxiously looking
forward to it with increasing hope, she would now have postponed it, if
she could. She had remarked but now, on meeting some of the ministers
returning from an audience with the Emperor, how curt had been their
salutations, how they had hurried away from her after the barest
ceremonious courtesy, as though fearing to be questioned by her; how
even the officers of her own household looked furtively at her, and the
people outside the palace regarded her with coldness, as though guessing
that her reign was almost at an end. Even in her Maids of Honor she
thought she saw a change; they seemed less respectful, less observant of
the Court etiquette, that Napoleon made de rigueur; more familiar in
their manner. Poor woman, no wonder she was sad; every friend seemed to
have deserted her; save only St. Just, who was now a Captain of her
Guard, and on his fidelity she knew she could rely; but then he was
flattered by her marked notice of him, and nursed a sort of languid
passion for her.
Suddenly the unhappy woman paused in her pacings to and fro, and
started, and her heart throbbed painfully. A firm, sharp step, that she
and those about her recognized, could be heard without in the
antechamber and rapidly approaching. At once, the ladies rose and
placed themselves in an attitude of respectful reverence, in which some
fear was mingled. He was not given to control his sentiments, and his
courtiers never knew in what mood he might be found.
The door flew open and the Emperor entered. He looked worried and
confused. Like the Empress, he was in evening dress. The ladies all
bent low before him.
Acknowledging their obeisance with the slightest movement of his head,
he passed on towards Josephine.
The moment she had first hoped for, and then dreaded, had arrived. With
a mighty effort she strove to close the door upon her fear and to assume
a gladness she was far from feeling.
She sprang towards him with a joyous cry, and stretched out her arms to
him, but her face was very pale, and there was a hunted expression in
her eyes; she was trembling violently. All this Napoleon noted and a
frown gathered on his brow. But for this, he would have responded in
the same spirit to her tones and gesture. As it was, his greeting was
chill and formal, and, the moment it was performed, he added in a cold,
harsh tone:
"Come, Josephine, let us walk together in the corridor before dinner."
Filled with a nameless dread, and without a word, the Empress took his
arm, and they passed from the apartment, the ladies meanwhile throwing
expressive glances at each other. Threading the suite of rooms, they
reached the gallery de Francois Premier. The long corridor, unlighted
as it was, looked weird and uncanny in the twilight, and presented an
almost endless vista. Its gloom and silence sent a shiver through the
Empress; its aspect was so different from what it was when she had seen
it last, illumined with thousands of wax candles and filled with
courtiers in brilliant uniforms and ladies in elaborate toilettes; the
walls echoing with the hum of sprightly conversation, broken every now
and then by the rippling laugh of some fair woman. Now, not a sound,
but their own footfalls, could be heard. Even the sculptured
salamanders seemed to grin maliciously, and the figures on the
tapestried walls to frown on her. With a shudder and involuntarily, she
tightened her grasp upon her husband's arm.
The Emperor, on his part, strolled on almost joyously, but such joy as
was in him was assumed. It was more a sense of satisfaction that an
unpleasant business would soon be done with. Try as he might, he could
not persuade himself that what he meditated was well. He saw the
cruelty of the act to her; yet his Ministers desired it; said it would
consolidate his power; that for him to found a dynasty would be good for
France. But even now his heart was torn by the emotions that warred
within.
At last, involuntarily, a cry of pity broke from him, "My poor
Josephine," and he looked down upon her pityingly. She started with
alarm; it was coming, what she feared.
"Napoleon," she gasped timidly, "What is it, and why do you look so
strangely at me?" She led, almost dragged him, to a seat in a window
that looked out upon a quaint old-fashioned garden, in which were yew
trees pruned into formal and fantastic shapes, many of which, in the
gathering darkness, looked like human figures standing motionless,
surrounded by huge animals all still as death.
"Tell your Josephine what troubles you," she resumed in pleading tones,
when they were seated. "Forget for one short hour the cares of State,
and let us be all in all to one another."
Nervously he clasped her hand in his, and, with eyes cast down upon the
ground in very shame at the base part he was about to play, he strove to
speak. But his words did not come willingly.
"How--how can I tell you," he began; "but I must, though it cuts me to
the heart. Josephine! my dear Josephine! You know how I have loved
you!.... To you, to you alone, I owe the only moments of happiness I
have tasted in this world. But, Josephine, my destiny is not to be
controlled by my desire. My dearest affections must yield to the
interests of France. They--the Ministers wish me to separate from you.
They--they say that it is necessary for the welfare of France that I
should have an heir to follow me in the Empire I have founded. They
tell me I must marry again." His voice had sunk lower and lower, till
the last words had become all but inaudible.
"And who are they," she cried impetuously, "that dare to tell the
conqueror of Egypt, of Italy, of Austria; the ruler of the foremost
country in the world, that he must do anything?" Then, changing her
tone to one of supplication, she continued. "You talk of marrying
again; do I not already enjoy few enough of a wife's privileges, that
you should think of putting me away? You do not give me the opportunity
of wearying you, for you are so much away on your numerous campaigns. I
do not complain, for what is a woman in comparison to affairs of State;
but I feel your frequent absences sorely.
"Oh! Napoleon, think how we have loved each other; recall the days of
old when you were troubled, and came to Josephine for sympathy and
consolation."
She rose to her feet and faced him. "You have raised me to an exalted
station, to a position that any woman would be proud of; it is a great
thing to be an Empress; doubtless I am the envy of millions of my sex!
But it is not the Emperor, it is Napoleon whom I love. These trappings
are as naught to me, without your love; this imperial mantle, I cast it
from me; this sparkling bauble, I tear it from my brow;" and, suiting
her action to her words, she tossed the mantle from her shoulders and
dashed her tiara on the ground.
"Sire, I come to you, all powerful, as you now are; I come to you, a
suppliant, as you once came to me." She cast herself upon her knees
before him. "Oh! do not mock me with the State; what right has it to
intervene between two loving hearts, to abrogate God's ordinances? Oh!
Napoleon, say you love me." She grovelled at his feet and clasped her
arms around his knees; she could scarce proceed for the tears that were
streaming down her face and the sobs that she could not repress. "Oh!
be Emperor in deed as well as name," she went on in broken accents. "Why
should you vex yourself about a son to follow you as Emperor and King,
you who can make Emperors and Kings at will? And for the State, you are
the State, as Louis le Grand in his time proudly said he was."
Then, seeing his unbending look, "I see my appeal is useless. Say no
more, I understand you. I expected this, but the blow is not the less
mortal."
She sank exhausted on the floor before him.
Hard and selfish, as he was, he had some heart, and at the sight of her
killing grief and the lovely, tear-stained face, that he had never
before seen, except wreathed in smiles, a wave of pity for a moment
rolled over his resolve, and almost stifled it. Her pleadings had
raised strong emotions. He rose and began to pace the gallery, with
head bent forward and hands clasped behind his back. "Stay," he said.
Then he began to mutter to himself, "Yes, I would I could defy them."
His hands twitched nervously. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. "Yes,
and I will defy them. Am I not Emperor, and shall they dictate to me?
By Heavens, no. They will only cringe before me, when I tell them that
I refuse to be coerced by them." His hand strayed unconsciously to his
pocket, and touched something. "And yet--" Then all at once his manner
changed. A man was advancing along the gallery. It was St. Just,
resplendent in his uniform as Captain of the Empress's guards.
Napoleon's eye fell on him, and he remembered what Colonel Tremeau had
said about him, he had called him the paramour of the Empress.
At sight of him, a frown gathered on the Emperor's brow, and his face
became convulsed with rage. "No," he broke out in a voice of thunder,
"No, I will not alter my determination. My Ministers are right. Ah!
traitress," to Josephine, who had been anxiously watching his relenting
mien, but now had uttered a cry, the knell of her expiring hope, "dost
think I do not know that, when I am absent, you console yourself with
others? It was so from the very first. There was that man who was with
you in the days of the Revolution; did you not meet him again in Italy?
Then there have been others, I have heard of, but how many I know not.
And now this man," pointing to St. Just. He turned savagely on him.
"Pray, Sir, what business have you here?"
The Emperor's fury awed St. Just. On entering the gallery he had not
known that it was tenanted, though he was looking for Napoleon. "I
came, Sire," he answered deprecatingly, "in the exercise of my duty as
Captain of the Empress's guard. I was not aware that you and Her
Majesty were here, or I should not have so presumed."
"You lie, Sir," roared Napoleon furiously. "You came to spy. Renegade,
deserter, traitor, you are always intruding on the scene. But this time
you shall not escape me; by Heavens; you shall die, as you have so long
deserved!"
Instantly he drew his sword and made a savage cut at the Captain of the
Guard, that would have ended that officer's career, had he not stepped
nimbly back. Then, smarting under the Emperor's scathing words, and
moved by sympathy for the insulted Empress, he did what ever afterwards,
when he thought of it, filled him with amazement at his temerity. He
drew his sword and placed himself in a position of defense before the
Emperor.
The combat began. The Emperor attacked with ungovernable fury; so
reckless was he, taking no pains to guard himself, that, had the other
chosen, he could several times have run him through, and thus terminated
the First Empire; but he kept calm, contenting himself with remaining on
the defensive, parrying Napoleon's furious onslaughts, with such skill
as he was master of. But to guard oneself in a duel, without taking
advantage of openings for attack, when one's opponent is enraged and
active, and fights regardless of his own danger, is no easy matter. And
St. Just had all and more than he could do, for, presently, the Emperor,
in making a furious lunge in tierce, was so far successful that he
ripped St. Just's sleeve and slightly wounded his sword arm. This
roused the officer's temper, and he began to press Napoleon in his turn,
driving him into a corner; though still it was his intention to avoid
even pricking him, if he could so far control himself.
At the first onset, Josephine had tried to scream for help, but, so
paralyzed with terror was she, that her voice refused to come. So, with
wide open eyes and terror-struck, she watched the combat, mute and
motionless.
Napoleon, in making a fierce thrust, now slipped and fell upon his knee.
He was at his opponent's mercy, as, indeed he had been all along, for
all he had not known it.
Burning with the sense of his own injuries, and exasperated beyond
control, St. Just had shortened his sword and was about to plunge it
into his opponent, when Josephine rushed forward and seized his arm.
"No, no," she cried, "what would you do? It is the Emperor you would
slay. More, he is my husband."
"And he would divorce you," St. Just retorted angrily. But Josephine had
saved the Emperor. The few words she had uttered had given his
assailant time to think, and he became once more master of himself.
Meantime Napoleon had risen to his feet and regained his sword. The
Captain of the Empress's guard snapped his own sword across his knee,
flung the pieces on the floor, and stood defenseless and erect before
the Emperor. Then, as though all that had just passed had never been,
he saluted, and said respectfully, "Mons. de Talleyrand desires an
audience with Your Majesty; he awaits you in the White Drawing Room."
Boiling with indignation at his defeat, and longing to cut him down or
run him through, but conscious that he had received his life at the
speaker's hands, the Emperor yet felt that it was impossible to slay an
unarmed man, and before the Empress, too. Perhaps it was, in reality,
her presence that stayed his hand. At any rate, he lowered his sword.
But the look of concentrated malice he turned upon St. Just was fearful
to behold. "Why did you not deliver your message when you first
intruded here?" he asked in a voice that was hoarse with passion.
"Sire, you scarce gave me the opportunity," was the calm reply.
"Go, Sir," resumed the Emperor. "I give you one hour to quit the
palace; if, by that time, you are not gone, then woe betide you; no
power on earth shall save you from my vengeance."
Then he turned to Josephine.
"Madame, the King of Westphalia dines with us to-night. See that you be
ready to receive him." Then, moving his head in the direction of St.
Just, he hissed out the words, "Make hay while you may; you have little
time." Then he added sternly and emphatically, "I go to tell Mons. de
Talleyrand to arrange for the divorce forthwith."
"Sire, Napoleon, hear me," shrieked the unhappy Empress, and she moved
towards him impulsively.
"I have said it," he said coldly, then stepped quickly towards the door.
Josephine staggered back and would have fallen, but that St. Just caught
her in his arms and saved her.
At the door Napoleon paused and turned his head, his figure sharply
silhouetted upon the panelling, by the moon, which showed up the red
ribbon of the Legion of Honor he wore, and accentuated the pallor of his
face.
"You have one hour," to St. Just.
He left the gallery, and the door closed with a clang behind him.
The sound roused the Empress and she withdrew herself slowly from St.
Just's support, and stumbled to a seat. She looked up at him,
terror-stricken and bewildered.
"He is gone from me," she moaned. "I have lost him. Oh! what shall I
do, what shall I do? Cruel, cruel!"
She pressed her hands against her head, as though to still its
throbbing. Until her first grief should have spent itself, St. Just
knew that to attempt to comfort her would be useless; and there was
nothing he could say. He stood watching her in silence.
For some time she wept silently. Then, suddenly she sprang up, and her
eye fell on the broken sword. She stooped towards it and raised it from
the floor.
Divining her intention, St. Just dashed forward and wrested it from her
hand. "Not that," he cried; "you must be mad."
"And have I not suffered enough to make me so? Why should I live? I
cannot live. Oh! let me die," she wailed.
"Never," he replied impetuously. "There is yet happiness in store for
you; life and hope."
"I will live, then; I may help him yet. Give it me," pointing to the
broken sword.
"You swear you will not use it?"
"I swear. I shall keep it as a memorial of your fidelity. If ever I
should be in dire distress and want your help, I shall send this
sword-hilt to you. Then, come to me at once, for I shall need you
sorely. Be careful for yourself; for Josephine's sake be careful, and
do not needlessly meet danger. It cuts me to the heart to part with
you, but you must go."
Her voice was broken with her sobs, and there was a hopelessness about
her tone that went straight to her hearer's heart.
He went down on his knee and passionately kissed her hand. A bracelet
containing a miniature of herself dropped from her wrist. He stooped
and picked it up.
"Keep it, my friend," she said, "in memory of the unhappy Josephine."
She bent forward and brushed his forehead with her lips. "We shall not
meet again, except to help him who has rejected me. If I seem
unfaithful it is to serve him; to regain his love. But now he loves me
not, so this token of affection to a faithful friend is no treason to
him. Farewell, my dear, you must not tarry."
But, ere the last words had left her mouth, St. Just had sprung to his
feet. Her words and the touch of her lips upon his brow had sent the
blood coursing madly through his veins. His heart was in a ferment.
Before she had divined his purpose, he had taken her in his arms and was
passionately kissing her. Was it his fancy only, or did she really
return his kisses? At least, she showed no resentment. "Farewell,"
again she murmured faintly. She struggled slightly to free herself, and
he released her.
Then he ran to an open window and, with one last look at her, he vaulted
through it and sped across the garden. On he flew, scarce noticing
where he went, intent only on cutting one of the main avenues, for the
time was going on, and his hour of grace would soon be spent; and then,
unless he should be well clear of the precincts of the palace, the full
weight of Napoleon's fury would be hurled at him. Soon he struck into a
broad drive, and, by following this, it led him to the Porte Dauphin.
Passing through the gate, he was hurrying onwards, when he felt a slight
touch on his arm. With a start, he checked his footsteps and, not
knowing whether it proceeded from friend or foe, instinctively he laid
his hand upon his sword. He saw two figures in the darkness, a man and
a boy; the man holding two horses by the bridles.
A silvery laugh rang out upon the stillness of the night and, the next
moment, two voices spoke, together:--"Master!" "Henri!" The speakers
were Mahmoud and his mistress.
"Halima!" cried St. Just astounded. "How come you here?"
"Am I not everywhere where my vengeance leads me?" she answered gayly.
"And I fancy I was wanted here. Deluded schemer, it is useless trying to
keep me in the dark; my agents have kept me informed of all your doings.
So you have been doing a little plotting on your own account--and a
little philandering too, eh? Oh! fie, you who swore that you had eyes
for no other woman, that your life was torture when away from me. Oh!
faithless, cruel deceiver!" And again her laughter rang out merrily.
It was so plainly unaffected, too, that even a less jealous man than was
St. Just could not have avoided the conviction that he had not been
greatly missed; that his wife had found consolation in another quarter.
He bit his lip in mortification.
"Curses on Abdallah!" he muttered.
"Nay, curse him not, my dear," she answered airily; "he has not lowered
you in my esteem. I blame you not; for, unwittingly, you have done good
service. 'Tis, is't not, that the Emperor divorces Josephine?"
He nodded; he was offended at her banter, and somewhat shamed.
"Good," she replied, referring to the divorce. "It is the beginning of
the end. Now tell me more."
Rapidly he sketched out what had passed, detailing Napoleon's fury and
his threat to have him shot, unless he were away at once.
When he had concluded. "You have no time to lose, my dear," she said.
"Mount, mount quickly, and ride away. They must not find you here.
Make your way with all speed to England; there, at least, you will be
safe."
"And you?" he asked.
"I shall be not long after you. Await me there. For the moment, I have
work in France. My vengeance is working towards its climax. It will
surely come, I know, but how soon I know not. Now go, dear."
He embraced her tenderly. "Oh! Halima, my best-beloved," he said, "why
cannot we always be together?" Then he mounted one of the horses and
galloped off into the blackness of the night.
*CAPTIVE, BUT EMPEROR STILL.*
*EPOCH IV.*
*CAPTIVE, BUT EMPEROR STILL.*
*CHAPTER I.*
It is to be regretted that of St. Just's MS., from which this story is
compiled, many pages have been lost. The reader will have noticed that
there are several gaps in the narrative--years in which his time is
unaccounted for. From the numbering of the leaves preserved, it appears
that more than a hundred pages are missing, pages that cover the period
between the moment when St. Just left Halima after his duel with
Napoleon in November, 1809, and the Emperor's abdication at
Fontainebleau, 1814.
So that it is impossible to state with certainty whether, when St. Just
rode away from his wife with the intention of gaining England, and
informing the British Government of Napoleon's contemplated divorce, he
carried out his purpose. This much however is known, that, by some
means he managed to escape the Emperor's vengeance. How he occupied
himself in the five years' interval cannot now be ascertained; but, from
allusions in the subsequent portions of his MS. it would seem that for a
portion of the time he served in the Russian Army, and took part in
harassing Napoleon in his retreat from Moscow. How he got to Russia is
not clear; but it is likely enough that he was sent there by the British
Government with despatches for the Emperor Alexander.
Doubtless he was engaged in many adventures, at the instigation of his
wife, but of these there is no account.
In the five years that had elapsed, great changes had taken place.
Napoleon, no longer Emperor of the French, was confined to the island of
Elba, in which he exercised a petty sovereignty; having been driven from
his country by the treachery of his Counsellors and Marshals, backed up
by the victorious forces of the Allies.
Halima was exultant at his downfall, in which, somehow, she persuaded
herself she had had a hand. True, she had been plotting against him for
years, but it may well be doubted that her actions had had the slightest
influence on events; but she thought so, and was, in consequence
content.
Josephine, the one woman who had had true and lasting love for the
Emperor, was dead, her end, no doubt, accelerated by the divorce.
Louis XVIII was king of France, but, with the usual obstinacy of the
Bourbons, he failed to recognize the enormous change that had taken
place in the temper and sentiment of the people; and already there were
signs, for those who had the wit to understand them, that, under the
surface there were smoldering embers of discontent that would burn
fiercely at the first fanning. But the powers in France were unaware of
it, and the deluded monarch sat his throne in cheerful self-sufficiency.
But it is with England, not with France, that the reader has now to do.
The first of January in the year 1815 was remarkable for its mildness,
enhanced, in the locality which was the scene of the events next to be
recorded, by the blazing sun which was pouring its rays generously upon
the earth from the blue expanse of cloudless sky, making the sap stir in
the leafless trees, and dyeing the herbage a more vivid green.
In the Spring and Summer the scene would have been a lovely one, and
even now, it was not without its charms--the charms that belong to an
English landscape.
Away in the distance lay in the Sussex Downs, sheltering from the cold
blasts from the North, a roomy, weather-beaten, red-brick house, at
present the abode of Halima and St. Just. A short distance from this
house, and looking down upon it, was Wolstonbury Hill, nestling beneath
which was the little church of Hurstpierpoint; the spire only was
visible from the house, by reason of the trees that intervened. Away to
the right was Devil's Dyke, and still further in the same direction lay
Shoreham Gap. Extending the range of his vision the gazer would discern
a clump of trees, called Chantingbury Ring, a well-known landmark for
miles round--the sailors say that, coming up channel, you can see it
thirty miles away.
In the old-fashioned garden that surrounded the house and was bounded by
the high road between London and Brighton--about ten miles distant from
the house--strolled on this same first of January, a lady and a
gentleman. Let it be said at once that they were Halima and St. Just.
Her age at this time was about three and thirty. She was still a lovely
woman, but had parted with her girlish looks. Some might even think
that her increased years had added to her charms; there was no waning in
them; only maturity; and from her intercourse with high-bred men and
women, she had acquired an ease of manner, a dignity of presence and a
wit and polish in her conversation that, with her quick intelligence,
made her more fascinating even than of yore. Withal, she had lost none
of her strong will power and imperiousness. She was dressed handsomely,
but more quietly than heretofore.
As for St. Just, he was noticeably aged, though the change in him in the
last five years was not so great as in the five that had preceded them.
He walked with a slight limp, the result of a wound received in Spain.
Presently they halted in their walk, and stood silently watching the sun
just beginning to slip behind the leafless trees that crowned a little
knoll to the West. At the same time the chime of distant bells struck
on their ears.
St. Just was the first to break the silence.
"Art happy, cherie, in the reflection that your vengeance is complete;
that our enemy, Napoleon, no longer the great, is exiled; that my
wanderings about the Continent are over, and that now we can be all in
all to one another."
"But is it really true?" she asked.
"True enough, my dearest. Did you not read it in the newspaper I
brought last week, when I went to London?"
"But newspapers oft lie. I am still not easy. You know, or ought to by
this time, that I depend on what my spirits tell me; not altogether on
what is common knowledge. And they have told me--"
"Hush! little woman, not so loud; you may be overheard. As it is, these
English about here are suspicious of us, because we're French; what
would they think, should they see and hear you at your incantations? I
believe they would burn you as a witch."
She burst into a merry, careless laugh. "They must catch me first," she
said.
But he did not join in her merriment.
"Don't laugh, my dear," he said. "If harm should come to you--" he
sighed.
"No harm will come to me. If any should threaten me, my spirits would
forewarn me of it."
They resumed their walk in silence, pacing up and down the graveled
walks. He seemed moody and disturbed.
By this time the sun had disappeared, and the air had become cold and
raw. Halima shivered. "I shall go in, Henri," she said. "It is
getting cold. This country is not like our sunny France." After a
moment's pause, she went on complainingly, "Where are your reflections
straying to?"
"I was thinking," he replied in an absent tone, "of what I had been
reading in the newspaper. I was thinking of the unhappy woman who was
Napoleon's wife."
"Of Marie Louise?" she asked.
"No, of Josephine."
"Ah! I might have expected it," she retorted angrily and there was a
dangerous light in her eyes, that might have warned him. But it only
angered him. He turned upon her sharply.
"You sneer, but she was a noble woman. I am proud to admit that she
regarded me with favor. I would have done much for her. But for your
devilish ingenuity and persistent malice, I might have saved him for her
sake."
"That you could not have done," she answered scornfully, "against my
will."
"Pray how?"
"Recall to your mind the eve of the battle of Wagram. Ah! you would have
made him believe in her, but for me. Abdallah was my agent, as you
know."
St. Just nodded in assent.
"He was watched by one of the Empress's Maids of Honor."