putting a rein on his excitement. He felt that he was about to get an
insight into circumstances that had puzzled him.
"She was in the power of her lover," resumed Halima, "a Colonel of the
Guard. What was his name? Ah!" after a moment's pause, "Tremeau. He
was watched by the palace Marshal, who was in the pay of Fouche. Fouche
had his own interest to serve, and was in league with Talleyrand; and
he, in his turn, was intriguing with Pitt and Malmesbury and other
enemies of Napoleon. And I was in it all; I knew all that was going on,
and helped to pull the strings. I was kept informed of all your doings
at Fontainebleau, my dear--amours and all."
"I see," he said; "spy upon spy."
"V'la!" she exclaimed, airily, "One must watch one's husband when he is
away. I know something of the ways of men. I always followed your
movements, when you were traveling."
"Except in Spain."
"No, not even excepting Spain, for there I was kept au courant by
Tremeau, who, you may remember, was in that country after Napoleon's
second marriage. He was in favor with Marshal Soult, and betrayed his
plans to Wellington. Yes, my friend, I had a finger in the Spanish pie,
not less than in other articles of Napoleon's menu."
"But my missions?"
"Blinds, my innocent, mere blinds; the instructions in your papers were
not intended to be acted on. They were written to mislead, in case they
should be taken from you. I soon found out that you were only half in
earnest about Napoleon; that, once under the glamour of his presence,
you would return to your allegiance to him. Fortunately, I discovered
this in time. Had you been trusted, you might have wrought irreparable
mischief."
"Then I was played with all along?" was his moody comment.
"I would not put it so offensively as that, my friend. Let us say that
the part you played was not a leading one; but you filled your role,
such as it was, with credit. A stronger part would, I fear, have proved
too much for you. You may thank me, therefore, that you were not cast
for the jeune premier."
She laughed, a little scornful laugh that was not pleasant to the
hearer.
For a few seconds, St. Just made no rejoinder. Then, looking at her
sternly, he enquired, "Do you tell me seriously that you had anything to
do with Tremeau's listening to my conversation with Josephine at St.
Cloud, and afterwards forestalling me in my mission to the Emperor?"
"Certainly I do."
"You did an innocent woman a grievous wrong; what harm had she ever done
to you?"
"None that I know of. I was not jealous of her, if you suggest that. I
did not mind your philandering with her in my absence. Without vanity,
I think I might put my attractions in the scale with hers. No, I had
not the least animus against her; she was a quantite negligeable, a
victim to the odium Napoleon would incur by her divorce."
"'Twas a heartless act. Had you no consideration for your fellow
woman?"
"What thought had Buonaparte for me, when he robbed me of my innocence?"
she retorted sharply.
He recoiled from her, as though he had been struck. "Ah! don't," he said
imploringly. "Why remind me of it? It was almost blotted from my
mind."
"But never from mine," and her eyes looked hard and cruel, and gleamed
with a vindictive fire.
She tripped away from him, and he turned round to watch her until she
disappeared into the house. A deep sigh escaped him. For the last ten
years--the best of his life and hers--he had been her husband in little
more than name; no sooner had he returned from one mission, than he had
been despatched upon another. Now he came to think of it, he had been
the mere instrument of her revenge, a tool in her hands, a sort of
confidential servant; and, even so, not wholly trusted. The position
irked him terribly, and, for the first time in his life, a something,
that he hardly durst acknowledge as regret, stole over him, that they
had ever met.
"I wonder what would have happened," he said half aloud, "if I had never
left Napoleon."
He sighed again, then began slowly moving to the house.
A noise of shouting in the distance made him check his steps. He
listened; the sound came nearer, and still nearer. Then, besides the
shouting, he could distinguish the clattering of horses' hoofs and the
pattering of running feet. Plainly, men mounted and on foot were
hurrying along the high road in chase of somebody or something. And now
a cry fell on his ear, that took him back to the bygone days--to France.
"A moi, mes amis; a moi, au secours!"
Without a moment's hesitation, St. Just dashed down the carriage way in
the direction of the sounds. When he reached the gates, he saw an
emaciated figure, panting and exhausted, running down the road; and,
about a hundred yards behind the fugitive, some dragoons, with an
officer at their head. The officer was waving his sword and shouting,
"Stop him, stop him, in the king's name. He is a French prisoner escaped
from Lewes." Some laborers in the neighborhood were following the
dragoons. Other villagers hearing the noise, came up from the opposite
direction with lanterns, to see what it was about.
Thus hemmed in, the hunted creature had no chance of escape. Seeing
this, he would have given up the attempt and quietly submitted to
re-capture; when St. Just, knowing, or rather guessing, that those who
were pursuing him knew no French, shouted to him, "A moi, pour France."
The fugitive dashed on, and fell palpitating at St. Just's feet.
"The very man I sought," he gasped. "Take it." And St. Just felt a
small, but weighty, parcel thrust into his hands, under cover of the
darkness. To save the man from capture was impossible, for the soldiers
were close upon him; and St. Just had only time to conceal the packet,
when the commander of the dragoons rode up, a few yards in advance of
his men. The fugitive had scrambled to his feet.
"Caught, you French rascal," exclaimed the officer, striking at him with
the flat of his sword. The man bent to dodge the blow, and then, before
anyone could divine his purpose, he made a dash at the holster before
the saddle, and seized one of the officer's pistols. In an instant he
had fired.
His aim was true. The officer swayed in his saddle, bent forward, then
rolled off his horse to the ground, shot through the heart. But, before
this had happened, there was another explosion. The assassin had raised
the pistol to his head and fired the second barrel. He dropped to the
ground and lay huddled up beside his victim. At the same moment, the
foremost trooper rode up and dismounted to examine the body of his
officer. He was stone dead.
The villagers crowded round the other man. He moved slightly. St. Just
bent over him. The wounded Frenchman murmured the words, "May the good
God forgive my sin;" then a shiver passed through his frame and he was
dead. St. Just examined the man's features by the lantern's light, and
was shocked to recognize in them Tremeau, the man of whom he and his
wife had but now been talking.
The other soldiers had now come up, and the sergeant dismounted and
proceeded to search the body. There was nothing on him, but the rags
that covered him.
The sergeant scratched his head and seemed perplexed. How to remove two
bodies on the high road with no proper means of transport, and whither
he should take them, required deliberation.
He was considerably relieved, accordingly, when a short, broadset man,
with gray whiskers and a florid face, and dressed like a country
gentleman, came up. He had half a dozen greyhounds with him. The
villagers made way for him and touched their caps respectfully.
"It is the squire, a magistrate," St. Just muttered to the Sergeant; "He
will see to this business."
"Hullo! neighbors, what's the matter?" asked the squire.
He spoke in a sharp, jerky manner, with a strong Sussex intonation.
Provincialisms were more marked then, than in these railroad days.
St. Just who had been the nearest witness to the tragedy, told the
magistrate what had occurred, omitting however, the fact of Tremeau's
having handed him the packet, for no one had seen the transfer.
"The damnable villain!" was the squire's comment, when St. Just had
finished. "Thank God, we have done with these murderous French at last.
Boney has been so soundly thrashed, that he will never work more
mischief." Which showed that the squire did not excel in prophecy. But
the villagers held the same opinion. "You're right there, Squire; we've
done with Boney at last, but he's took a deal of doing," assented one,
who seemed to take the lead. The others sent up a little cheer, but the
grim sergeant only nodded.
"Take both bodies to the Hall," the Squire resumed. "I will communicate
with the coroner; the inquest can be held there. You, Mons. St. Just,
will, of course, attend it. And you, Sergeant."
St. Just assented, then wished the Squire good-evening and withdrew. He
was anxious to put the packet in a place of safety for future
examination, when he should be alone; for now, he expected his wife to
come out every moment, to inquire the meaning of the disturbance; she
must have heard the shots.
When he reached his study, he took the packet from his pocket and
examined the outside. It was stitched up in a sleeve of French
Guardsman's coat, and greatly to his surprise, he found it was addressed
to himself.
"Major St. Just
England."
Then it really had been meant for him. How fortunate that he had
happened to be on the spot. He had supposed, naturally, that it
concerned Colonel Tremeau, or some friend of his, and that he himself
had been intended only as a messenger for its delivery.
He locked it up in his escritoire, and then went to seek his wife.
Later, another surprise awaited him, for, at the inquest, he discovered
that the murdered officer was that very Captain Anson who, ten years
before, had driven with him, a prisoner, along that same road, when on
his way, unknowingly, to Trafalgar.
*CHAPTER II.*
It was late the same night, or, to be precise, at an early hour--long
before day-break--on the following morning, before St. Just found an
opportunity of examining the packet that had so strangely reached his
hands; for Halima was never fond of retiring early for the night. But,
at last, she went to bed, and then St. Just betook himself to the room
he called his own.
It was a cozy, pleasant room, and, at this time, a cheering fire was
blazing in the grate. As he glanced around, his eye fell on the various
familiar objects gathered in his journeyings and associated with his
profession. Over the mantelpiece was the sword that he had worn in
Egypt; while, in a small glass case below it, was the little reddish
yellow brick of gold that he and Halima had picked up by the lake,
beneath which had lain the subterranean city. In the bookcase on his
right were three calf-bound volumes found at Moscow in the ruins of the
Kremlin. Two of these were stamped with Napoleon's arms, the third
displayed the Imperial arms of Russia.
He glanced at these and other memorials of his travels; then, with a
sigh for what he might have done and been, but for his infatuation for
the dark-eyed beauty who controlled him, he stepped to the escritoire
and took out the packet.
Then a curious hesitation came upon him: a sort of fear of the news it
might contain. He turned the packet about in his hands, his fingers
trembling, and again carefully scrutinized the address. He did not
recognize the writing and tried to think out the writer's personality.
At last he murmured, "Why do I hesitate? Why do I fear, I who have
thrice braved Napoleon's wrath, and remained unscathed? Pshaw! I can
have nothing to fear, so here goes."
And, with a hand that shook, for all the bravery of his words, he took a
pair of scissors from the table and cut the stitches that secured the
wrapper.
On removing this, what first met his gaze was a small packet carefully
secured in oilskin. It was sealed with a seal that made his heart beat
faster, and brought the tears to his eyes; for in the impression he
recognized the cipher of the Empress Josephine.
This packet was addressed:
"S. M. I. L'Empereur Napoleon."
St. Just laid it down and took up a second package, heavier and bulkier
than the first. This was addressed to himself and was in Josephine's
handwriting.
"To Major St. Just,
Greeting and Farewell."
This, also, he laid down, but with a sigh. He would open it when he had
satisfied himself as to the remaining contents of the parcel. They were
two pieces of English newspaper covered with manuscripts in French.
Translated, the words ran as follows:
"A word from the lips of Charles Tremeau, formerly Colonel of the
Imperial Guard, written with all sincerity at the House at Lewes to
Mons. St. Just.
"Sir, knowing that my life, since I was so badly wounded in the fight at
Vittoria in Spain, can be but of short duration, I hasten to send to
you--if by any chance it can be sent--the enclosed packet, which was
handed to me by the Empress Josephine, with instructions to forward it
to you, in order that you might warn the Emperor of the dangers
threatening him. It was meant to reach you last year, when you were in
Paris. I pray you lose no time, when this and the enclosures find you.
I have to ask your forgiveness for a breach of trust I now confess.
"Thinking that the papers entrusted to me by the Empress might implicate
you and her in the Emperor's estimation, and thus make capital for
myself, I opened the packet and made myself master of its contents.
Hardly had I done so when I was forced to flee from Paris on account of
Fouche, who was seeking me, and into whose clutches I had no mind to
fall. Accordingly, I bargained for a passage to England with one Slade,
of Brighton, a Sussex fisherman, then in the Port of Havre.
Unfortunately for me, when we landed, he was arrested by the Custom
House officers as a smuggler, and I with him. We were marched off to
Lewes jail, where we have been incarcerated for the past two months.
Alas! alas! most bitterly I repent my folly and dishonorable conduct.
"At my wife's instance, I took copies of these papers and sent them to
the English Government, hoping they would set me free. This was a month
ago, and I have heard nothing. Perhaps they have deposited them among
their Archives, labeled as the wanderings of a lunatic! If so, the
worse for them, but it is right that you should know what I have done;
then you will be on your guard.
"It only remains for me to charge you to deliver the enclosed
papers--they are the originals from the Empress--to the Emperor at Elba.
"This is written in the hope that I may find the means for it to reach
you.
(Signed) C. Tremeau,
Chef de bataillon."
Below was added later:
"An opportunity for escape presents itself, or so we hope. To-morrow,
all being well, I shall deliver these in person. Slade and I have
arranged to escape together. We shall separate outside the jail and meet
afterwards at his house near the village of Brighton. I give his
address below, in case aught should befall me after I have seen you.
Should this be so, explain my absence. Use him as you think well. He
knows all and may be trusted.
"T."
Then followed Slade's address.
In much bewilderment, St. Just put down the papers; then, carefully,
actuated by his affection, he took up the packet addressed to him in
Josephine's handwriting. On opening it, the first thing that met his
eyes was the sword-hilt he had given her at Fontainebleau, five years
before. To it was attached a slip of paper with these words on it:
"In my hour of agony I found you a friend. Again I call on you, by the
memory of this sword-hilt, to befriend me. I rely on your fidelity to
deliver the accompanying packet to the Emperor, my husband, for so do I
always regard him in my heart. So, go to him, my faithful and
well-beloved friend, so soon as you receive this, I entreat you. Spare
no trouble, lose no time, but go at once. You swore to help me, long
ago, if ever you could; and I know you will. And now you can, for I
count what you do for the Emperor as done for me. Then start, dear
friend, on receipt of this, for the sake of France, for Napoleon's,
above all, for the sake of her who signs herself, as she ever will,
"Josephine
"Empress Queen."
This letter from the dead hand of the Empress strongly moved St. Just.
The tone of piteous entreaty that rang through it touched his heart, and
her unswerving faith in him made a strong appeal alike to honor and
affection. She did not know his grievance against Napoleon, when she
asked him to assist the Emperor; therefore she was not to blame. And
he--well, he would ignore it; for the time, at any rate.
"Adorable woman!" he exclaimed. "Faithful, trusting creature! And to
think that I shall never see you more! All that is left me is to execute
your behest. And I will; you shall not have trusted me in vain. Yes,
this very day I'll start."
He glanced at his watch.
"Three. I can be at Brighton by four, if I ride sharply; and four hours
later at Havre, with a favorable wind. I ought to reach the Emperor by
the 13th or the 14th, at the latest. Yes, I must set out at once. Now
to apprise Halima of my absence."
He seated himself at his writing table and, after pondering for a few
moments, scribbled the following words:
"My dearest. Important business, the details of which I have not time
to enter into now, calls me immediately to London. I will explain on my
return.
"Yours, Henri."
This letter he addressed to her and laid on the table, where it would be
sure to catch her eye, when she should come down in the morning. While
doing so, a grim smile flitted across his face; he was thinking of
Halima's rage when she should find that he had gone without consulting
her. How she would stamp about and storm; would vent her spleen on the
unhappy servants; they would have but a sorry time of it.
He went to the mantelpiece and took down his sword. "This sword," he
murmured, "was first drawn in his service, and, if he require it, it
shall be again."
He took up the packet for the Emperor, and placed it in his pocket.
Then he picked up the Empress's letter to himself and re-read it. This
done, he raised it to his lips and kissed it passionately. "I long to
keep it in remembrance of her," he murmured, "but it is not safe."
He stepped up to the fire and threw it on the flames, and followed it
with Tremeau's confession. He waited till both were shriveled into
blackness; then left the room.
Pausing in the hall outside, he unhooked from a peg a riding cloak and a
three-cornered hat. From a cabinet he took a pair of strong warm gloves
and a brace of pistols, which he carefully loaded and put into his
pocket. Then, as noiselessly as possible, he quitted the house by a
side-door in the study, and made his way to the stables, which were
close at hand.
Here he selected from a stall a suitable roadster, and saddled him with
his own hands, not choosing to wake the grooms, who were sleeping
soundly in the loft above. Then, he left the stable and proceeded down
the avenue, leading the horse.
He had just mounted and was about to turn into the high road, when he
received a check he had not bargained for. Barring his way, was a party
of mounted men. There was sufficient light--for it was a clear,
starlight night--for him to see that they were soldiers, and, by their
uniform, hussars. While he was wondering what their presence could
portend, a voice called out in peremptory tones, "Halt."
Clearly the words were addressed to him, for the others were already
stationary. Desirous of concealing his identity, on the chance that
they might be coming to arrest him--not that he was aware of having done
anything to warrant it, but that his experience had made him
apprehensive--he decided to pretend to be a groom; so, to the challenge
he replied in broad Sussex dialect, "Who be you, Sirs, and what be you
adoin' here? This here ain't a public road. If you want Shoreham, it's
straight on to the right. Let me pass, please, Masters. I've got to
ride for all I know for the doctor. My mistress is lying near on death,
and master is watching beside her bed. Let me pass, sirs; it is a case
of life and death!"
But the men made no attempt to stir, and the voice that had before
challenged him called out, "Is not your master named St. Just?"
"Aye, that be's name," rejoined the pseudo-countryman. "Let me get
through. I tell you my mistress is mortal bad, and I cannot stop for
naught."
"Harkee, sirrah,"--the words came from a fresh voice--"your master is
accused of conspiring against the King, and we have a warrant for his
arrest. Lead us to him instantly, or it will be the worse for you."
And the speaker moved his horse close up to St. Just.
There was something in the man's tone that seemed familiar to St. Just;
he was confident he had heard the voice before. And, now that its owner
had come alongside of him, he recognized him in an instant. He was Sir
Henry Emerson, the man whose despatches he had purloined in the
character of the Comte St. Clair.
Taught by the many perils he had passed through, he was generally
prepared for an emergency, and never lost his presence of mind. On the
present occasion, while the colloquy had been proceeding, he had been
casting about for a plan of escape; and had decided on his course of
action. Convinced that it was useless to parley farther--more than ever
now that he had recognized Sir Henry Emerson--he slashed, with his
riding whip, the King's Messenger across the face; then, suddenly
wheeling round, he struck his spurs into his horse and leaped the fence
that bordered one side of the avenue.
In making his jump, St. Just had been careful to select his spot. It so
happened that, for some distance along the other side of the hedge,
right down to the high road, the ground had been excavated for
sandstone, for which that part of Sussex was celebrated. It was,
therefore, full of pits, and anyone, jumping into them in the dark, must
sustain serious injury, if not death. St. Just, however, knew the
bearings well, and he had chosen the only spot on which one could alight
with safety. It gave on to a grassy track that threaded its way between
the various quarries and, after a long detour, came out eventually on to
the high road, nearer Brighton.
St. Just's action had been so sudden that his would-be captors were
thoroughly bewildered and, at first, could not conceive what had become
of him. A moment ago he had been there; now he had disappeared. That
was all that they were certain of. Sir Henry Emerson gave a yell of
mingled pain and rage, and the officer and his men came round him to
learn the cause of it. With a volley of curses, he explained.
Meanwhile, the sound of horse's hoofs could be heard upon the turf,
gradually growing fainter, until they were no longer audible. They knew
nothing of the country, so to pursue the fugitive would be useless.
Besides, in their opinion, he was not the man they wanted, and he could
be dealt with when he came back with the doctor. So they proceeded
slowly up the avenue towards the house, Sir Henry Emerson, with a red
wheal across his face, cursing and swearing at every step.
Meanwhile St. Just was cantering along the grassy track, and, in due
course, gained the lane which led to the high road. Here he breathed
his horse for a minute or two, listening the while with pained
intentness for the first sound of approaching horsemen: but not a
footfall, either of horse or man, was to be heard. The stillness was
almost absolute; not a whisper of animated life, or a breath of wind to
stir the leafless trees. Once more he gave his horse the rein and
quickly urged him to a gallop. Though, for the moment, he had escaped,
his pursuers would quickly discover that the man who had slipped through
their fingers was the very one they wanted, and would soon be after him.
On he sped, sweeping across Sayre's Common as though the devil were at
his heels; then, continuing with unabated speed, he gained the foot of
Dale Hill, leading to Rye Coombe. Here he dismounted and once more
strained his ears for the slightest sound that should import pursuit;
but still the silence was profound. He ascended the hill on foot,
walking briskly and leading his horse. At the top of the hill he
remounted. It was now a level stretch to Brighton, and he made the most
of it, thundering along the road at topmost speed, until within half a
mile of Brighton; then he moderated his pace. Slade's house was in the
outskirts of the village, as Brighton then was, and he pulled up at the
fisherman's door, just when the clock of St. Nicholas' Church, not far
distant, was chiming half past four.
A sharp knock, a few hurried words, and a little money, and the business
was arranged.
One of John Slade's sons, Tommy, a bright-looking lad of two and twenty,
who loved anything that savored of adventure, entered heart and soul
into the "lark," as he mentally phrased it, and hailed with delight the
proposal that he should ride back St. Just's horse to the Plough Inn at
Rye Coombe. He was to don the Frenchman's hat and cloak, and he
guaranteed to lead his pursuers a pretty race, if they should sight him.
When this matter had been arranged, St. Just disguised himself as a
fisherman, and then he and the elder Slade walked quickly up the hill,
at whose foot the cottage stood, and struck out for St. Nicholas'
Church. Here they turned to the right and, after continuing for a short
distance, knocked at the door of one of an isolated group of cottages,
where lived the mate of the John Edward, as Slade's sloop was
named--after himself.
Roused from his slumbers, and grumbling considerably thereat, Harry
Wingfield was quickly told the reason. The sloop was to start, as
rapidly as she could be got off, with the French gentleman for Havre or
Fecamp, whichever port would be the easier to make.
They made their way down West Street for the shore.
"How is it the sloop comes to be moored here, instead of at Shoreham?"
asked St. Just.
"Well, Sir, since father died, I've lived here. Wingfield here," and he
jerked his thumb towards the mate, "know'd I'd be wantin' him middlin'
early this morning for I'd sent him word. That's why he was so slippy
in comin' down when we knocked. I've only just got from Lewes--given
'em the slip, you know--and, if not off pretty sharp, they'll have me.
I meant to sail at five this mornin' just on the turn of the tide; so
you're only just in time; a little later and I should have flown."
St. Just made a suitable reply, and, by this time, they had reached the
bottom of the street. They shaped their way to the "Blockhouse"--or
rather, the remains of it--that had been erected by Henry VIII to defend
the coast. Below this lay the sloop. Borrowing a boat, they rowed
quickly to her. The crew were on board, so the anchor was weighed
instantly, the sails were set and the John Edward was headed for the
coast of France.
*CHAPTER III.*
The little sloop John Edward duly made the port of Havre.
Here Fortune smiled upon St. Just, for he learned that a ship was lying
in the "roads" on the point of sailing for Naples, and that its captain
was an old acquaintance, Captain Brenneau, aforetime commanding the La
Fleche. So he started for the owner's office to engage a passage. He
parted cordially from the smuggler-fisherman, for they had become very
friendly on the passage, and St. Just had told him of his errand to
Napoleon. Tremeau had said that Slade was to be trusted, and St. Just
thought he would be interested in his movements. He had told him also
of Tremeau's tragic end, at which the fisherman had been much affected;
he and the French Colonel had seen much of one another in Lewes jail,
and had escaped together.
In shaking hands with his late passenger and making him wince with the
vigor of his grasp, Slade said heartily, "Good luck go with you, Sir;
and, when you return to England, I hope you'll come and see me. No, no,
Sir," when St. Just pressed money on him, "I won't take a penny off you.
I didn't put to sea on your account, for I was bound to make myself
scarce, till things had settled down a bit; and you're a friend of that
there Tremeau, a decent chap I will say for a Frenchy."
And, with these farewell words ringing in his ears, and another grip of
the honest fellow's hand, St. Just left him and went aboard L'aigle d'or
(the Golden Eagle) where he found Captain Brenneau anxiously pacing the
quarterdeck, watching the men hoisting in the stores.
He failed to recognize St. Just, dressed, as he was, like a fisherman,
and roughly ordered him away. "I will have no loafers (faineants) about
my ship;" for St. Just was hanging about, idly gazing at the workers.
St. Just broke into a laugh and recalled himself to the Captain's
remembrance, and then proceeded to state the object of his voyage and to
ask Brenneau whether he would drop him at Elba. To this the other at
once agreed and, on the following day they sailed.
Now, had they proceeded thither direct, Elba should have been reached,
ten or eleven days later; but Captain Brenneau had to call at Marseilles
to see the owners, and here the vessel was detained for ten days loading
further cargo; so that it was not until the first of February that they
sighted the little island that now comprised all Napoleon's empire.
It was dark by the time they were near enough to lower a boat.
St. Just bid farewell to the Captain, and took his seat in it; the boat
put off, and, in half an hour made the harbor and was brought up by a
flight of steps in the harbor wall. Here St. Just got out, and the boat
pushed off to make her way back to the ship.
He stood watching the departing boat for about five minutes; and he was
on the point of ascending the steps, when he heard voices just above
him. He paused to listen.
"I tell you," said one voice, "that to-night he is expected from the
country. It is the best chance we have yet had."
"But," said another voice, "he is always guarded; it will be useless."
"Not to-night. He and Bertrand return alone to meet ----," St. Just
could not catch the name--"who brings intelligence from Pauline."
"And where do you propose to stop him?"
"At the ----" again the word was inaudible to St. Just.
"You will take your stand, hat in hand, in the middle of the road; take
this dog with you, leading it with a string, as though you were blind,
and beg alms of the Emperor. Then, when the carriage has stopped to
avoid running over you, lean forward and fire both pistols at him. He
will be seated on the right side, remember."
"And what part do you take?"
"We cover your retreat."
"Is it certain that this man has promised us a ship?"
"Yes, yes; an hour ago, when the fog lifted, I saw her standing off the
shore. And a boat to take us to her is at this moment waiting at the
spot arranged."
St. Just was horrified at what he heard. Clearly there was on foot a
plot to assassinate the Emperor. What could he do to circumvent it?
Not knowing where to find Napoleon, he could not warn him. He was an
absolute stranger in the place, too. And no time was to be lost; for,
so far as he could tell, the attack might be made at any moment.
Certainly it was to be to-night. His agitation became terrible, while
he vainly tried to puzzle out some plan of saving Napoleon's life. He
was in a trap, for his only means of getting away from where he was, was
by the steps, and these men were at the top. For a certainty they would
know that he had overheard their conversation, when he should show
himself, and, for their own safety, would attack him, in the hope of
silencing him for ever. Doubtless he could secure his own safety by
remaining where he was, until they should have gone. But then, the
Emperor? He had come all the way from England on what he regarded as a
sacred trust from Josephine, to help the Emperor to the utmost of his
power, and, come what might, this time he would not betray his trust.
He was periling his life in appearing before the Emperor; by facing the
conspirators above, he would be but anticipating danger. And this he
made up his mind to do. He would steal noiselessly up the steps, and,
the moment he gained the top, without a word, he would fall upon these
men. Two circumstances were in his favor--the start they would receive
when he suddenly burst upon them; and the advantages that lay in
striking the first blow. Besides this, he was convinced, by what he had
overheard, that they were cowards.
Silently he removed his cloak, lest it should impede his movements, and
laid it on the steps. Then he examined his pistols--they were
double-barreled--to see that they were duly primed. Satisfied on this
point, he placed one in the right breast pocket of his coat, so that his
left hand could grasp it readily; and the other in a pocket in the
skirt. Next, slowly and with the utmost care, lest the clink of metal
should be heard, he withdrew his sword from the scabbard. Then, step by
step and bending low, he crept up the flight of stairs, pausing at each
to steady himself. No Red Indian bent on falling upon his enemy in his
sleep could have moved more stealthily. He could still hear the men
above him talking, but their tones were lower than before, and his mind
was so intent on his own movements that he caught only a word or two now
and then. So far as he could judge from the different intonations,
three men were talking. But he had no fear. He had many faults, but
want of courage, when it came to fighting, was not one of them.
Besides, in the present instance, his opponents might be accounted as
only two, for he would cut down one almost before they would know that
they were attacked.
On, like a tiger crouching and dragging himself slowly towards his
unsuspecting prey, he glided, mounting ever higher; until, at last, he
was within three steps of the top. The restraint he had placed upon
himself in his efforts to make no noise, scarce even to breathe, had
made him short of breath; so he paused for a moment to regain it,
preparatory to the rush he meditated.
It was a minute before he could breathe easily. Then, with a dash, he
was at the top of the steps and rushing at the men. There were three of
them, as he had thought, and they were standing about two yards from
where he had landed, all close together and talking in low tones. There
was no one else in sight. They started apart, on seeing him, with an
exclamation of alarm; but he was on them almost before it had left their
lips. There was a cry of pain, then a groan, as St. Just's swift weapon
was withdrawn, and the man nearest to him lay writhing on the ground.
The other two, seeing their companion fall and realizing the imminent
peril they were in, unsheathed their daggers, and, in an instant almost,
had rolled their cloaks round their left arms--they were hanging over
them at the time, and by a rapid whirling movement of the wearers' arms,
they were coiled round--and prepared to defend their lives. They felt
it would be useless to attempt to fly. St. Just saw that he had all his
work to do. They dodged about him with the activity of cats, always
keeping at a safe distance, but now and then making feints at advancing,
and one or the other continually trying to attack him from behind. He
had to keep turning round, whirling his sword about the while, with such
velocity that sometimes it seemed to be multiplied by three or four. He
began to be apprehensive of the result, for the men were young and
agile, and seemed to be untiring. So active were they, that he feared
to attempt to withdraw his pistol, lest at that moment they should take
him unawares. The fight had now been going on for several minutes, and
St. Just's breath was failing him. He had not bargained for so sharp a
contest. He could not last much longer. Becoming desperate at this
reflection, he rushed frantically, with sword uplifted, at the nearest
of his assailants, regardless of himself. But luck befriended him. In
his hurry to avoid the sudden onslaught, the man struck his foot against
something and lost his balance. Before he could recover it, St. Just's
sword had reached him and inflicted an awful gash in his neck, that
brought him to the ground. At the same instant St. Just felt a sharp
pain in his left arm. Aiming at his back in the hope of striking his
heart, the other man had missed the spot, owing to a movement on St.
Just's part, so that the blow had descended on his arm. Feeling the
smart, St. Just turned quickly. His assailant was too close for him to
cut or pierce him with his sword, but he raised his hand and brought the
hilt down on the man's head, with all his force. The man dropped like a
stone.
St. Just was laboring painfully with his efforts, and he rested on his
sword to take his breath and to think things out.
"The Emperor is saved for to-night," he gasped, when he was able to
speak; "but it was tough work, I was nearly done for; I could not have
held out much longer."
When he had recovered himself he went down the steps to regain his
cloak. He threw it over his shoulders and went up again. Then, without
heeding the prostrate men, and caring little whether they were alive or
dead, he set off at a brisk walk, intending to make inquiries how he was
to reach the Emperor.
He had just got beyond the precincts of the harbor, when he heard a step
and saw a light approaching. The man who bore it came quickly on, and,
in another minute, was close to him. A lantern was held up to him, and
a face peered into his.
St. Just was dumfounded; the man was his old comrade, Garraud.
"Garraud! don't you know me?" he exclaimed. "I'm St. Just."
From his action, Garraud might have seen a specter. He started so
violently that he dropped the lantern. Then, "My God! St. Just, is it
really you?" he said, "I thought you dead. And what brings you here?"
St. Just told him of his errand from the dead Empress, and then went on
to speak about the plot he had overheard, and how he had dealt with the
conspirators.
"Heavens! what a narrow escape," cried Garraud. "We must alarm the
guard at once, and seek for the others. There must be more in this
affair than the three you have disposed of. You seem to be continually
in adventures, my friend."
They walked away together, and, ten minutes later, a dozen Polish
lancers were trotting quickly down the road by which the Emperor was
expected, carrying a message from St. Just, confirmed by Garraud.
Then the two reunited friends made their way to the Palace, as the
tumbledown building the Emperor occupied was called, where there was as
much ceremony as had been observed at the Tuileries and Fontainebleau in
the olden days.
Two hours later, St. Just was summoned to the Emperor's presence, being
ushered in by General Bertrand.
The apartment was poorly furnished; the contrast to Fontainebleau struck
St. Just with amazement. A few gilt chairs from the Tuileries were
scattered about the room, serving merely to emphasize its bareness; in
the center was a long trestle table, on which was spread a large map of
the island; a small writing table stood in one corner, and along the
side of a wall an old chintz-covered sofa. These completed all the
furniture.
The Emperor at the moment of St. Just's entrance was standing before the
fire-place, pressing down the blazing logs in it with his foot, a trick
of his.
He was wearing a very old uniform of the Guards, his only decoration
being the cross of the Legion of Honor; his boots were dirty, and,
altogether, there was a general appearance of slovenliness about him.
He was even paler than when St. Just had last seen him, and he looked
anxious and dissatisfied. He had grown stouter, too. He was wearing
his cocked hat, but it was pushed off from his brow, and was balanced on
the back of his head. But, despite the deterioration in his appearance,
there was still an air of majesty, and he had not lost his commanding
mien.
As it had ever been with him in Napoleon's presence, St. Just felt awed,
and, when the Emperor turned round, he knelt at his feet and kissed his
hand.
"Rise, Sir, rise," said the great man sharply. "We look not for the
ceremonial here that was the rule in France."
St Just rose to his feet. "I have the honor, Sire," he said, with great
respect, "to be the bearer of information for your private ear."
"Go, Bertrand," said the Emperor instantly, without replying to St.
Just. "Leave me with this gentleman; but remain within call." Then,
when the Marshal had left the room, he continued to St. Just, "Now Sir!
Your message must needs be pressing when you dare to present yourself to
me, after what occurred when last we met. I have not forgotten that I
have an account to settle with you. Methinks your courage exceeds your
judgment."
This was not an encouraging reception, and while St. Just hesitated, he
went on speaking in still sharper tones, "Come Sir, explain why you are
here."
He paused for St. Just's reply, and began to pace the room impatiently.
"Sire," replied St. Just, "I need no reminder of the circumstances of
our last meeting, and I take this opportunity of expressing my
contrition for my conduct on that occasion, and praying your
forgiveness. It is in accordance with a promise then given to the
Empress that I am here to-night. On the first day of the New Year I
received this packet, accompanied by a letter from Her Majesty, charging
me to deliver it to you. Coming as it did from a hand then cold in
death, I regarded it as a sacred trust, and instantly I started to
fulfill it."
He handed the packet to the Emperor, who immediately asked how it had
come into his possession.
St. Just told him, and of Tremeau's letter to him and his tragic end.
Also of Tremeau's breach of trust in having opened the packet and sent a
copy of its contents to the English Government. Then he gave a rapid
sketch of the incidents of his start from home, up to the moment of his
arrival at Elba, winding up with an account of the conversation he had
overheard on landing, and of his encounter with the men who were
plotting to assassinate the Emperor.
Napoleon listened to him attentively, without a word. His countenance
was absolutely immobile; so far as any one could judge from looking at
it, St. Just's narration was no concern of his; but, all the while, he
was weighing in his mind whether the speaker was to be believed. More
than once he had broken his trust; he might be lying now.
"Have you anything to add?" he asked in a cold, impassive tone, when St.
Just had finished speaking.
St. Just was in great pain; his wounded arm was smarting terribly; he
had lost a great deal of blood, there was a curious dizziness in his
head, and a strange weakness was creeping over him; he felt unequal to
further conversation. But, making a strong effort, he replied, "Only
this, if Your Majesty will forgive my boldness; but my loyalty to your
person gives me courage. Once before, upon the eve of Wagram, I brought
you State papers from the Empress, containing grave intelligence. You
doubted their trustworthiness and destroyed them. I cannot but think
that, had Your Majesty acted on that information, affairs would have
shaped themselves for you more fortunately. And now, a second time, I
bring you a despatch from her. I have not a suspicion of its contents,
but, from the earnest entreaty of her letter that I should convey her
packet to you with my own hand and with the utmost speed, I know they
must be of the gravest moment to Your Majesty. Oh! Sire," he continued
with impassioned earnestness, "if a humble person, such as I am, dare
advise, I beseech you, this time to be guided by the Empress. Your
interests were ever nearer to her heart than were all others.
I--know--I risk--my--"
He tottered, sank into a chair, then rolled on to the floor in a swoon.
When he recovered consciousness, he found himself lying in the anteroom,
and Garraud bending over him. He stared vacantly into his friend's
face. "What has happened?" he stammered, "where am I?"
"Bravo! my friend," cried Garraud cheerfully, "you're all right now; you
fainted, you know; lost a good deal of blood from your wound;
over-excitement, and so on. But you must keep quiet. Don't talk, but
listen; the Emperor is now closeted with his suite. You may be wanted."
"I recollect now," replied St. Just. "I was with the Emperor, and I
swooned; but I am well enough now; only a trifle weak." And, with a
little struggle, he raised himself and sat upright.
Soon afterwards, General Bertrand entered with a smiling face.
"If you are well enough, Mons. St. Just," he said, "the Emperor desires
to see you at once."
St. Just rose slowly; his arm was in a sling; unknown to him, Napoleon's
surgeon had attended to him by express command, and had bound up his
wound.
In the adjoining room he found the Emperor, surrounded by his suite.
When he entered, the words he heard rejoiced not less than they amazed
him.
"Gentlemen," the Emperor was saying, "we leave for Paris the moment it
can possibly be arranged. France calls us, and we, her sons, must obey
her summons. She needs her Emperor, and she shall not need in vain.
Therefore, prepare to start; but not a word of our intentions must be
breathed outside these walls. You may now retire; all but Mons. St.
Just, with whom I desire a word or two." He bent his head slightly in
token of dismissal. All bowed low before him and then filed out; all,
except St. Just, who stood awaiting Napoleon's will with inward
trepidation.
But he was quickly reassured, for, the moment they were left alone, the
Emperor advanced to him with a pleased expression, and held out his
hand.
"Mons. St. Just," he said, "I wish to take your hand in token of
forgiveness. I believe I wronged you.
"Had I, last April, received the news that you, at the risk of your
life, have brought me, I should never have quitted Paris. As you have
just heard me say, I am going to return; and, in consequence of the
intelligence of which you have been the bearer. In token of my
appreciation of your services, I hand you this. I will not say, live up
to it, for I know you will."
He detached from his coat the decoration of the Legion of Honor, and
handed it to St. Just.
St. Just was overwhelmed at the unexpected honor and, while he took it,
was at a loss for words; but his face expressed all that was in his
mind.
"But--but, Sire," at last he stammered, "this is the cross of a
Commandant!"
"Quite so," replied Napoleon reassuringly; "and, to give you the status
to support the dignity, I create you Count of Elba, and will see that
you be endowed with a sufficient income. Now, I will not keep you
longer, for you require rest. Don't stay to thank me, Count. Bertrand
shall make out your patent of nobility to-morrow."
So St. Just, murmuring his thanks and protests of fidelity, but scarce
knowing what he was doing, bowed low to the Emperor and withdrew.
Apparently St. Just never received his patent, for the following note
forms a portion of his MS.:
"It was never done. Bertrand meant to do it, but it got put off from
time to time, owing to his multifarious occupations; and on February
25th we sailed; I have never seen my titular island since, though I
still have, at this time of writing, my cross. 4 June 1820."
*CHAPTER IV.*
After Napoleon's landing in France on his escape from Elba, events moved
fast. As everyone knows, his progress from the coast to Paris was a
triumphal march; the people and the soldiers alike receiving him with
effusion. The generals sent to effect his capture became magnetized by
his presence and, instead of arresting him as a conspirator, hailed him
with acclamation as their leader and enrolled themselves beneath his
standard. Their soldiers followed them with the wildest enthusiasm,
fresh troops successively sent forward to oppose him, taking the same
course; so that, by the time he reached the capital, he was at the head
of a powerful army, mostly veterans and commanded by the finest generals
in the world. Thus, there was no one left to bar his progress; the
opposition had melted away; such leading men as had not cast in their
lot with his, had fled the country, and the King with them. The words
in which Julius Caesar used to describe his own achievements, altered
thus, would even more suitably have applied to Buonaparte:--"Imperator
venit, visus est, vicit."
The news of his return fell like a thunderclap on the ears of Europe,
and diplomatists and generals became as busy as ants when their home has
been disturbed, devising means to crush once and forever the bold
usurper. But, if they were active for his downfall, he was untiring in
his efforts to strengthen his position and to make preparations for the
impending onslaught; for he knew how terrible would be its force, and
that nothing but consummate generalship, aided by extraordinary fortune,
could avail him; the Allies were resolute and agreed about hurling him
from power. So, during those memorable Hundred Days, his energy never
flagged, and he performed prodigies of work, inquiring into everything
himself--no detail was too small for him.
Fortresses were strengthened, provisioned and armed; thousands upon
thousands of France's already depleted population were drafted into the
army and drilled incessantly from morn to night; the foundries were kept
going night and day, casting artillery; muskets and arms of every sort
were poured out by tens of thousands; stores of every description were
collected, men and women were hard at work all day in turning out
materials for uniforms, and others in making them up as fast as their
nimble fingers could ply their needles; never before in so short a
period was such a mass of war material got together. And the Emperor
saw to everything.
To be sure, he was ably seconded by his generals and ministers, for the
enthusiasm was prodigious. Everything was done to excite the passions
of the French against the rest of Europe, and to inspire them with
confidence in the Emperor's invincibility. But there were some few--the
more thoughtful of them--who doubted.
Throughout this period of preparation, St. Just saw a good deal of the
Emperor, who had now taken him back into his favor, and seemed to have
no doubt of his fidelity. Napoleon's trust was amply justified, for, now
that the ci-devant traitor was removed from his wife's influence, his
former devotion to his old commander had returned in greater strength
than ever, and no persuasion or temptation could have made him swerve
from his allegiance. Not even Halima herself could have achieved it.
The Emperor had placed him on his staff, and raised him to the rank of a
colonel, and had bestowed other marks of favor on him, pecuniary and
otherwise. Also he took him into his confidence on private matters,
sometimes discussing with him subjects strictly personal to himself.
The Emperor often employed him on private missions and enquiries that
required tact and promptness and fidelity for their performance; and he
had never reason to be dissatisfied with the result. All this was very
flattering to St. Just, and nourished his devotion.
The wound he had received in Elba had healed by the time he landed in
France, and, beyond an occasional twinge, his arm was as sound as ever.
One day, ten days after the return to Paris--that is to say, early in
April--St. Just was summoned to a private audience with the Emperor.
"Colonel," began Napoleon, the moment St. Just entered, "I want someone
I can trust implicitly to proceed to Vienna upon an errand that will
make demands alike on his acuteness and his courage. I have the utmost
confidence in you, and should prefer you as my messenger to any one
else. I know you have had much experience of continental travel."
He looked at St. Just with a knowing smile that showed he knew a good
deal more of his movements at Halima's instance than had been suspected
by the other. St. Just reddened slightly, but remained silent, waiting
for further information.
"If you agree to go," the Emperor went on--St. Just was about to say
impetuously that, of course, he would go, when Napoleon held up his hand
to check him. "Stay," he said, "wait till I have finished. The man who
undertakes this mission for me will run great risk; if he fail, I may be
powerless to assist him. They may shoot him as a spy; or they may
imprison him. Now, are you prepared to take the risk? I issue no
command, for I might be sending you to your death. It is not the
Emperor who orders, but the friend who asks."
Now, in putting the matter in the way he did, the Emperor showed much
astuteness. Had he merely issued his order for St. Just to go, the
aide-de-camp would, of course, have started without demur; but he would
have gone unwillingly, for he liked Paris; the bustle and activity going
on, and in which he bore a prominent part, had great attractions for
him, and he was anxiously looking forward to the moment when, their
preparations completed, the French army should, with Napoleon at its
head, meet its enemies face to face. Above all, he was a soldier: the
smell of powder was a sweet savor in his nostrils, the boom of cannon
and the roll of musketry were as music in his ears. By going to Vienna
he might lose the chance of winning distinction on the field. But,
beyond all this, he would be separated from the Emperor, his intimate
intercourse with whom was now his chief delight and pride.
And Napoleon knew all this; he was a keen observer of those about him,
and he had read St. Just aright. So he put his wishes on this occasion
by way of favor; thus first anticipating and then smothering St. Just's
dissatisfaction, making him swell with pride at the confidence reposed
in him, and burn with enthusiasm to execute the Emperor's behests.
Not a moment did he hesitate when Napoleon finished speaking.
"Sire," was his prompt reply, "I deeply feel the honor your choice
confers on me. Willingly, gladly I will execute your errand, and will
do my utmost to bring it to a successful issue. The Emperor has but to
command, and I will cheerfully obey. I trust I shall not fail in
accomplishing the end you have in view; but, be assured, Sire, that, if
I should, it will not be through lack of zeal. How soon am I to start,
Sire, and what are my instructions?"
His face was glowing with enthusiasm, and the Emperor was moved at his
devotion, and said a few gracious words by way of thanks; then he
proceeded to explain to his staff officer what it was he had to do.
The Empress Marie Louise, with Napoleon's son, the titular King of Rome,
was living at Vienna at her father's court; and Napoleon and his
ministers thought it would be a good stroke of policy to get her into
France. Once there, they hoped she could be influenced to intervene
with the Allied Powers on his behalf. If she could gain her father to
the Emperor's side, he might prevail on the other Powers not to
interfere with the present regime in France, so long as the people
themselves were satisfied. The Empress, if she could be got possession
of, would be, it was hoped, a sort of hostage for the Powers'
non-interference with her husband.
Already there was a plan on foot for the execution of this project, and
St. Just had been selected by Napoleon as the agent.
He was to proceed with all speed to the Austrian Capital, and there--in
person should it be possible, but, if not, by some trusty messenger--he
was to convey to the Empress a letter from the Emperor, urging her to
accompany the bearer to France.
It was hoped that, having regard to private communications which had
already taken place, the Empress would yield to the Emperor's request
and place herself under the protection of St. Just. She really had
expressed her willingness to return to France, if it could be managed
secretly. According to the plan that had been arranged, she was to
leave the palace at night by a side door and join St. Just outside; then
they were to make their way as rapidly as possible to Munich, where an
escort would receive the Empress and accompany her to Paris. All this
was detailed at length by the Emperor to St. Just, with the names of
certain persons at Vienna who were in the plot, and could be trusted.
His last words were,
"You will find the Empress at Schoenbrunn. Twenty-four hours after
meeting her you must be at Munich. Spare no expense. When once you get
possession of the Empress, fly. Now go, my friend, and good luck go
with you."
St. Just bent before the Emperor and kissed his hand; then he withdrew.
An hour afterwards he had quitted Paris.
St. Just's MS. from which this story is compiled gives no details of his
journey to Vienna, the reason probably being that, inasmuch as his
errand resulted in a fiasco, he did not wish to be reminded of it; but,
from hints dropped here and there, it may be gathered that he reached
his destination and saw the Empress. It would seem that he was duped,
and by Halima once more. Fouche, with whom she had close relations, and
who, in his heart, believed that Napoleon's day was over, and was
opposed to the project for the furtherance of which St. Just was acting,
must have told her. In the result, a lady closely veiled met him at the
palace, as arranged, and the programme was duly carried out. But, on
their setting foot in France, he found that his companion was not the
Empress, but his wife. His chagrin and rage may be imagined; they must
have been unbounded, and, probably for the first time in her life,
Halima failed to pacify him and mould him to her will. At any rate, he
makes no mention of what took place on his return; not even of how the
Emperor received him, when he learned how St. Just had been beguiled.
Evidently the subject was too sore a one for St. Just to bear to dwell
upon. Much of the foregoing statement is based on surmise; but it is
pieced together from stray notes in the MS. and is, probably, a fair
account of what occurred.
When St. Just returned to Paris, he fell into his old groove; warlike
preparations were hurried on; conscripts were drilled more assiduously
than ever; arrangements were made for the government of the country in
Napoleon's absence; and at last the moment came when the Emperor set out
to cast the die that was to make or mar his fortune once for all.
*CHAPTER V.*
The morning of the 16th of June, 1815, was just dawning; for, away in
the Northeast, a faint shimmer in the sky, that grew momentarily
stronger, was heralding the approach of day.
The French army was once more on foreign soil; it had advanced into that
country which, from its having been the scene of so many well-contested
fields, so many sanguinary conflicts, had acquired the name of Europe's
Cockpit.
That portion of the army, to which St. Just was for the moment joined,
was posted on a height hard by some windmills, which, in an emergency,
would form a temporary shelter and give time for the troops to rally
after a check.
In the distance facing them, was the Prussian contingent of the Allied
army, under Blucher, its center holding Ligny, its right and left wings
extending respectively towards St. Amand and Sombrey. Between the two
armies was a broad ravine.
St. Just, mounted on a handsome chestnut charger, had arrived, not long
before, with despatches from Marshal Ney to the Emperor. At the moment,
he had dismounted to give his horse a rest, and was standing motionless
by the windmills, his arm thrust through the bridle, his eyes and ears
alike on the alert. Suddenly the sound of firing, in the distance,
broke on his ear, now rapid, now merely dropping shots; occasionally,
for a short space, ceasing altogether. He listened attentively, and the
sound grew louder. He judged, from the quarter whence it came, that it
was the advanced guard driving the Prussians back from the village of
Fleurus. If the two were engaged, it must be the Prussians who were
retiring; the French guards would never give ground to such a foe--for
St. Just, like most of Napoleon's officers, held the Prussians in
contempt.
While, he was figuring to himself the changes in the several positions
that the engagement then proceeding would bring about, he heard the
tramp of horses, and the Emperor, accompanied by his staff, rode up.
"Ah! St. Just," he cried, "what are you doing here?"
"My horse was tired, Sire, and I was giving him a few moments' rest. I
was told by the picket officer that you were expected at the windmills
almost immediately, and I thought I should find you sooner by waiting
here than by seeking you, since I did not know from which direction you
would come. Marshal Ney sent me to say that he is hindered in his
advance on Quatre Bras, by the enemy, who are in force beyond Frasnes."
The Emperor, who was habited in his well-known gray overcoat, for the
morning was chilly, scribbled these words on a piece of
paper:--"Advance, at all hazards, on Quatre Bras at once. Send men by
the village of Marchais to occupy the heights of Brie. I must have them
by two o'clock. At that hour I shall order a charge of the whole front
to support you. You ought not to have lost so much time; if you had
already advanced, we should have had the Prussians in our grasp." He
handed the paper to St. Just. "Take this at once to Marshal Ney, and
ride your hardest. Urge on the Marshal the necessity of an immediate
advance."
St. Just mounted and rode off at full gallop, for the Emperor's message
was imperative. He would get a remount from Marshal Ney, for he knew
that, when he reached him, his horse would be exhausted.
On gaining Frasnes, he found that Ney was only then preparing to
advance. Ney read the Emperor's message carefully, and deliberated. It
was all very well to give the order, but he doubted the strength of his
command for the task before him.
While he was still hesitating, a dragoon rode up in haste.
"Marshal,"--he saluted and shot out the words--"Colonel ----, commanding
the advance guard, bids me say that the Prince of Orange has occupied
Quatre Bras."
"Perdition!" shouted Ney, much upset at the intelligence. "At all costs
we must drive him out." Then, turning to St. Just; "you see, Colonel,
the difficulty I am in. The Emperor does not know of it; it is
impossible for me to move the men as he desires; my force is not
sufficient in the face of this last news. Here, take those men to the
front;" pointing to a squadron of Dragoons. He seemed quite bewildered,
and scarce knew what to do, hesitating whether to follow the Emperor's
orders or to act on his own knowledge, gained on the spot, of the
position.
"But, Sir," St. Just protested, "what about the men for the heights of
Brie?"
"I tell you they cannot be spared, Sir," was the Marshal's sharp reply.
"Go, Sir; the Emperor has placed me in command here. I must have time."
St. Just was attached to Ney's command, and he durst not disobey; so he
made no further protest. He saw that, for some reason, the Marshal was
delaying, and it troubled him. He said no word audibly, but he
muttered, "It is terrible, but I am helpless. At any rate, I can obey."
He exchanged his wearied horse for a fresher one, then placed himself at
the head of the squadron and started for the front. He could hear the
sound of firing in the direction of Ligny on the right, and also
straight ahead of him. Advancing at a rapid trot, he came up to some
battalions of French infantry. They were hotly engaged with the enemy,
firing as fast as they could load.
"They run, they run," shouted an officer by his side.
"Who?" asked St. Just sharply.
"The Brunswickers; see!" And he pointed towards the eddying cloud in
front.
St. Just looked, but it was impossible to judge in the smoke and the
confusion how the fight was going. All he saw was that the French were
falling fast; right and left, and all around him they were dropping
under the storm of bullets. To remain idly looking on was more than he
could stand; the impulse to rush forward at the foe, to ride them down
and hack and hew, was tearing him to pieces, and to remain a passive
spectator was no longer possible. At last, although he had received no
orders to advance, he shouted, "Charge!" and galloped forward to an
opening between two squares. With a cheer, his men dashed after him.
Straight before them, but concealed by the dense smoke, and formed into
a square, were the Forty-second Highlanders, who had been advancing and
had missed their position, so that they were unsupported. Into this
square plunged St. Just's Dragoons with an impetuosity that could not be
withstood. The Highlanders wavered, then broke and, in a moment, the
Dragoons were in the midst of them, slashing and thrusting, and hewing
like fiends let loose. The English, without knowing it, had approached
so near the French lines that the battalions behind St. Just rushed in
and attacked the Highlanders with the bayonet.
When St. Just and his men had cut their way through the square, sending,
in their passage, many a gallant Scotsman to his account, his sword was
red with blood, and yet he could scarce remember that he had used it; in
his excitement, he had not had time to think, and had hardly realized
what was going on.
His men and himself, mad with the lust of battle and the desire to kill,
their appetite for blood increased by what it fed on, now threw
themselves on a body of Black Brunswickers. It was reckless folly, for
the latter far out-numbered them, and both horses and men were fresh;
whereas St. Just's were blown. Blindly and madly, they rushed upon the
Germans, but their foe stood firm. They retired and charged again, but
not the least impression could they make upon the serried mass before
them; St. Just's men were beaten back with frightful loss. Seeing the
hopelessness of further fighting, St. Just ordered a retreat. At a
short distance on the left was a glade with trees, and to these the
discomfited Dragoons betook themselves, in the hope of finding temporary
shelter. But the Brunswickers swooped down upon them with shouts of
triumph.
In and out between the trees they fought with desperation, dyeing the
ground crimson with their blood. More of the victorious Belgians came
up, and the glade rang with oaths and shrieks, the clash of arms and the
crack of pistol shots; and mingled with them, the cries of the wounded
and the dying.
St. Just's horse was killed under him and, in falling, brought his rider
to the ground, entangling his leg in the stirrup, so that he could not
rise. Thus he was taken prisoner. His captors hurried him through the
wood till they came to the highway leading from Brussels to Quatre Bras.
At this point, a mounted general officer with a prominent Roman nose,
and dressed in a plain uniform and wearing a cocked hat devoid of
plumes, confronted them. He was accompanied by an aide-de-camp.
"Who are you, Sir?" he asked sharply, addressing the prisoner.
St. Just drew himself up and saluted.
"Colonel St. Just," he answered, "of the Emperor's Imperial Guard."
"Hah!" said the aide-de-camp, and, leaning forward, he spoke in a low
tone to his companion, who immediately called out to the soldiers, "Fall
back there!" Then to St. Just, "A word with you, Sir. Now, Sir, I know
who you are, and all about you. I also know your wife. Now, tell me
what are Buonaparte's plans, or--" and he paused ominously.
"Or what?" St. Just asked promptly.
"I will have you shot for a spy. You are well known for one."
"I refuse to say a word," was the unflinching answer, and he looked the
general officer boldly in the face.
The latter wasted no time in argument. He turned to the aide-de-camp.
"Matthews, see this man shot." Then, without another word, he rode
away, satisfied that his order would be carried out. As St. Just
learned afterwards, he was the Duke of Wellington.
St. Just's position was desperate indeed; for all that, he did not lose
his presence of mind. If he should go quietly, he would infallibly be
shot. He resolved to make a dash for life; should he fail, the result
would be the same as if he had not tried; he would be shot--in the back
instead of in the face--a distinction without a difference. Suddenly
the thought flashed on him of how Tremeau had acted in somewhat similar
circumstances--before his house in Sussex. St. Just was alone before
the officer, his captors having fallen back some paces, in obedience to
the orders of the Duke. Instantly his resolution was taken. Before any
one could dream of his intention, he had dashed upon the officer, hurled
him from his horse and vaulted into the vacant saddle. Then, wheeling
the horse round, he set off at a gallop, shouting "Vive L'Empereur."
The whole affair had been so sudden, that his captors were dumfounded
with astonishment, and, for the moment, were at a loss how to act.