But, by this time, the fugitive had got many yards away. He heard the
order given and instantly bent low in his saddle. Crack, crack, crack,
went three musket shots. He could feel the bullets whistle past him.
Before they could load again, he was out of range.
He rode for his life, tearing down the road at topmost speed. A few
stragglers--English--blocked his path.
"Despatches from the Duke!" he shouted. "Make way!"
They did; his English words had saved him. On he flew. Presently he
became conscious of a horse's hoofs striking the ground rapidly behind
him. He was convinced he was being pursued. It was the officer who had
been charged to see him shot. He had caught a Dragoon's stray horse,
and was thundering after the runaway. St. Just could feel that his
pursuer was gaining on him. Just when life and liberty seemed his, was
he to be deprived of both?
But now a greater danger than the officer in his wake assailed him. In
a field a few yards from the road was a man in the dreaded scarlet
uniform. The officer shouted to him to shoot St. Just. The English
soldier leveled his musket, taking a steady aim, his object plainly
being to fire point blank, just when St. Just was passing. The
Frenchman saw his peril and suddenly ducked his head.
Bang! he felt a sudden, scorching smart and a bullet cut a channel
across his forehead; then the blood began to trickle down his face.
All at once, on the other side of a ploughed field on his right, he
espied a troop of the Emperor's Polish Lancers. They were sabering some
Belgian infantry. He turned into the field and crossed it at a gallop.
His strength was failing him, for the blood was pouring from his wound.
A few more strides and he had gained his comrades. He was saved! He
swayed unsteadily in his saddle, then rolled off and fell unconscious at
their feet.
When he awoke to consciousness, he found himself in a clean white bed
with a French officer by his side. His comrade also had been wounded,
for his head was swathed in a bloodstained cloth.
"Where am I?" St. Just asked in a weak voice, and looking, bewildered,
first into the other's face and then around the room.
"At La Belle Alliance, a farm house," was the reply; continuing, "The
decisive battle will be fought to-morrow. Hark! what is that? A
carriage!"
He went to the window and looked out. "'Tis the Emperor's carriage; and
he is getting out."
In less than a minute, a staff officer entered the room, followed
immediately by Napoleon.
At the sight of him, St. Just first raised himself to a sitting posture
on the bed, then staggered to his feet and saluted. He felt weak and
dizzy.
The Emperor, who was now paler than his wont, and looked ill and
worried, spoke to him kindly, making a few inquiries about his wound and
how he got it. Then he repeated what the officer had said, that the
decisive battle would be fought on the morrow, and inquired whether St.
Just would be able to take part in it.
To this St. Just replied that nothing should prevent him; that his wound
was a mere scratch, and that he was merely a little weak, and that a
night's rest would put him on his feet.
The Emperor moved to the window and gazed out. "To-morrow," he muttered
musingly, "to-morrow."
* * * * *
The morning of the 18th of June was ushered in with pouring rain. It
came down in heavy showers, almost in sheets, drenching the expectant
combatants to the skin, and making the ground so soft and spongy that
much of it was like a swamp; so that the movements of the artillery were
slow and difficult; often the men had to assist the horses in getting
the wheels out of the furrows of slush and mud. Thus, it was half past
ten before the army had taken up its position.
Before this, the Emperor had posted himself on the heights of Rossome.
St. Just, still weak, was by his side. From ten in the morning till six
in the evening he remained there, inactive, following with his eyes, as
well as he could, the movements of the army.
The Emperor sat motionless on his horse, continually bringing his
telescope to his eye to watch the progress of the battle, and sending
frequent messages by his aides-de-camp to his generals in all parts of
the field. His countenance betrayed the terrible anxiety he felt.
Every now and then he gazed out into the far distance for the first sign
of reinforcements.
"Grouchy," he murmured, "why does not Grouchy come? He should have been
here long ere this."
He turned suddenly to St. Just and spoke to him for the first time for
hours. It was now six o'clock.
"Tarry no longer. Say to Kellermann, the cavalry is to advance; and the
day is ours. Tell him to sound the charge at once."
St. Just saluted and dashed off.
By the time he had reached General Kellermann, his mind misgave him as
to the Emperors meaning. Did he intend all the cavalry to take part in
the charge, or only Kellermann's division? There was now no means of
ascertaining. All he could do was to repeat to General Kellermann the
Emperor's words, and leave him to put his own construction on them. But
he did it with great misgiving. "The Emperor's orders are," he said,
"that the cavalry is to advance, and that you are to sound the charge at
once."
Kellermann thought the whole body of cavalry was to charge, and passed
on the order to General Guyot, who commanded a division of seven
thousand horse, who had been waiting for hours in ungovernable
excitement. This was not what the Emperor had intended; these seven
thousand were the reserve.
It was a fatal error, and, too late, Napoleon saw it. It lost the day,
for, at this critical period, the battle was drawn. The English could
not advance, and, in consequence of the Emperor's having despatched ten
thousand men to hold Bulow, the Prussian general, in check, the French
were not in a position to follow up any advantage the cavalry charge
might give them.
St. Just joined himself to General Kellermann's command and charged with
them. They rushed off at a gallop, the thousands of hoofs making the
ground shake beneath them. Again and again they dashed with desperate
valor at the English infantry, but could make no permanent impression;
frequently they broke the line opposed to them; but the stubborn
Englishmen had a valor equal to their own, and always rallied, closing
up their ranks as fast as they were broken. More and more furiously did
the Frenchmen fight, but it was all of no avail. They had made their
final throw, and it had proved a blank. Their loss of men was fearful,
and, before reinforcements could be hurried up, Blucher, with his
Prussians had come up.
This was the turning point of the day. From that moment, the French
case was hopeless, and they had to admit defeat. The Retreat was
sounded; but soon all order was abandoned, and it became a rout, and the
cry of "sauve qui peut" went up. The worsted French scattered pell-mell
in all directions.
St. Just, forced back in the rout that followed this welcome and almost
indispensable accession to the strength of the "thin red line," of
English, once more regained the Emperor's side.
Night was advancing and the Emperor could no longer direct his routed
troops. It was too dark for practical orders either to be given, or, if
given, carried out. But he still lingered, and was only forced away in
the general rush, St. Just and two or three others with him.
Across that ghastly field they rode; and what a ride! Every now and then
some bivouac fire, not yet expired, would flicker up in the darkness and
show the flying Emperor to the host of wounded that bestrewed his path.
Many of the poor creatures, when they recognized him, would raise
themselves upon their elbows and, even while they groaned with pain,
would faintly cheer, then sink back exhausted by their effort, only to
be trampled to death alike by friend and foe in the mad flight of
pursuer and pursued.
On and on and on the little party rode, wearied and dejected, almost
without a word. A short halt was made at Genappe, merely to obtain
fresh horses. At one o'clock on the morning of the 19th they reached
Quatre Bras. Here they remained, and rested for an hour, and the Emperor
despatched orders to try to check the rout and collect the scattered
fragments of the army. Also St. Just says, to inform General Grouchy of
their defeat.
At dawn the journey was resumed by way of Laon, and thence, by rapid
stages, to Paris.
*CHAPTER VI.*
It was the 28th of June. Much had happened in the ten days that had
elapsed since the battle of Waterloo. Napoleon had returned to Paris;
had found both the Chamber of Peers and the Chamber of Representatives
determined no longer to retain him as the ruler of the country; had
abdicated in consequence; and was now on his way to Rochefort with the
intention of escaping to the United States.
Near the Tuileries was a cul de sac, called the Ruelle de Dauphin, and
here was situated at this time the Hotel Mirabeau, where St. Just was
living by himself.
On the afternoon of the day last mentioned a woman, closely veiled, and
followed by two men, entered this building and proceeded to the third
story. Here a latch-key in the woman's hand admitted them to a small
vestibule that led to a long, narrow room. In one corner of this
apartment was a door, which, on being opened, disclosed a closet.
The movements of the persons who had just entered were peculiar.
The woman crossed the room, opened the door of the closet, and motioned
to the men to enter; "When I kiss him," she said, then closed the door
upon them.
Then she took off her cloak and removed her veil, placing both on a
chair. There was a mirror in the room and, naturally, the next thing
she did was to step up to it. It reflected the face of Halima, and on
it was a look of triumph, tinged with hatred. She turned away with a
scornful smile, and sat down to wait. Evidently she was expecting some
one. She was still a woman of rare beauty, but long-continued
determination, in the face of repeated disappointments, had imparted to
her expression a certain hardness, that, in former days, had not been
there. For the rest, as regards appearance, she was somewhat fuller in
figure than of yore.
Napoleon's return from Elba had been a dreadful blow to her, and, for
the moment, she had reeled under it. To find that, only a few months
after she had thought his fall complete, he was once more supreme in
France, had at first taken all the spirit out of her. But, when the
initial shock had passed, she had soon plucked up again and set her
busy, vindictive brain to work to devise fresh plans for her betrayer's
overthrow. It was not that she now resented, or even thought of, the
act that had been the original cause of her vindictiveness; if she had
dwelt on it, it would have been rather with a feeling of complacency,
and even pride, that a man who had risen to such a height of power
should have honored her with his amorous regard.
Rather, what moved her now, what fostered her desire for vengeance,
added virulence to her malice, and strengthened her resolve, was the
revelation of her own importance, in contra-distinction to Napoleon's
power, the frequency with which her plottings had been baffled, the
little there was to show for all the wealth she had so lavishly expended
in the prosecution of her schemes. For, though, in her
self-sufficiency, she tried to persuade herself that she had taken a
leading part in causing the Emperor's misfortunes; yet her own heart
told her it was a very small one.
Now, for the second time, Napoleon's downfall seemed complete and
permanent. Surely this time there would be no recovery. She thought
out the position calmly, and decided that it was impossible. His defeat
at Waterloo had been so overwhelming, and the Allies were so resolute to
crush him, and so strong.
These were her reflections while she sat there waiting, and her smile
deepened in malignant triumph.
Since she had fooled her husband in his mission to the Empress Marie
Louise, they had not met. On their return to France on that occasion,
he had separated from her and had resolutely declined all her advances
to resume cohabitation. Heart and soul, he was now devoted to the
Emperor, and her power to make him swerve from his allegiance was gone.
But she knew all that he was doing, or nearly all, for in all his
movements her spies dogged his steps.
Presently she heard on the stairs a footfall that she knew. The door
opened and St. Just came in.
At the sight of her, he started and stood still. "Halima!" he exclaimed
slowly, his surprise showing in his tone, "what brings you here?" The
usual ring of welcome in his voice no longer sounded.
She noted its absence and, though not surprised, resented it. A sullen
curtain veiled the brightness of her face; but only for an instant; then
she became all smiles and sweetness. She had a part to play, and was an
adept in all the wiliness of the Oriental.
"Fie, uncourteous man," she answered playfully, "to speak like that and
look so cross; and just because his loving wife has come to see him,
when he won't come to her. Oh! Henri, dear, I cannot bear this
separation. And it is not right; husband and wife should not be parted.
I have come to ask forgiveness for the trick I played you in Vienna; but
I little guessed you would take it so to heart, or I would not have done
it. Surely, by this time, you have forgiven me. Oh! Henri, let me
come back to you!"
She paused and looked at him expectantly.
But he made no reply; only stood there immovable; and his face was full
of trouble and indecision.
"What!" she resumed, "still unforgiving? Nay, Henri, I did not think it
of you. But I will kiss you into acquiescence. I will lay my heart
against your own, and you shall feel its throbs, and its mate within you
shall leap to meet it, and I will soften you to pardon."
All this time St. Just was standing with his back towards the closet
door, to which Halima's eyes had several times been furtively directed.
Noiselessly and gradually this door was opening.
Halima's last words had hardly left her mouth--deceiver that she
was--when she rushed at St. Just with her arms wide open, and threw them
round his neck, drawing his face down to her own. "Kiss me, my Henri,"
she cooed in the note he knew so well; and, unconsciously, at the magic
of her voice, his arms embraced her and he pressed his lips to hers.
The door behind St. Just was now wide open, and, stealthily, with the
sinuous movements of a panther, the two men glided towards their
unsuspecting victim. Then, when close to him, suddenly they threw
themselves upon him, pinioning his arms so that he was helpless. At the
same moment, Halima loosened her hold on him and freed herself from his
embrace, standing away from him with a look of triumph on her face. In
another instant, before he had realized what had happened, he was on his
back and held in an iron grip by his assailants. They were powerful
men, each far stronger than St. Just, so that he was like an infant in
their hands. He saw the futility of resistance, and did not attempt it.
But he turned on Halima such a look of sad reproach and grief as would
have touched the heart even of a Lucretia Borgia. And it touched
Halima's; still she did not falter in her purpose.
"Delilah!" The tone told what was in his mind; sorrow and indignation,
reproach and murdered love, failure and despondency; it expressed them
all.
"I know all you feel," she answered, "all you think of me; but it had to
be, there was no other way. You have that about you that I was resolved
to see; and I knew that no persuasion of mine would make you part with
it. Force was the only instrument at my disposal. It saves your
reputation, too; there is no disgrace in yielding to superior strength,
so you have nothing for which to blame yourself. No harm whatever is
intended you; only a temporary inconvenience. You must see the
hopelessness of resistance; bow to the inevitable, therefore, and show
your sense by not attempting it. But, in any case, I mean to have those
papers."
She faced him without flinching, with stern, unbending aspect, and her
tone was resolute.
Her warning had been almost needless, for held as he was, he could move
neither hand nor foot.
He laughed scornfully; then answered bitterly, "Doubtless your advice,
Madame, was well-intended, but you might have spared yourself the giving
it, for no one knows better than myself my utter helplessness. Even
with one of these lusty rogues I should, unarmed, have had no chance.
But, were my arms but free, even though I know that death would be the
outcome, I would struggle, while life lasted, to defend my trust. Oh!
God! to be thus constrained!"
His despairing accents thrilled her.
"I know it, Henri," she replied; "there lives no braver man than you."
Then she turned to the men. "Bind him hand and foot, and search him."
She looked on calmly, though her heart was in a tumult, while they took
strong cords from their pockets, and proceeded to tie first his hands
and then his feet together. St. Just made no resistance; where would
have been the use? But he glared savagely at Halima, all the while, in
a way that made her tremble.
Then they searched him carefully. Their quest resulted in the discovery
of a sealed letter, the object of Halima's proceedings. In a fever of
excitement, she tore it open and began to read it.
"Ha!" she cried suddenly, "so Napoleon thinks to escape to the United
States; I had half expected it." She drew herself up, and her voice was
raised almost to a scream. "But never while Halima lives to bar the way.
Fouche must know of this at once. He may be trusted to take measures to
prevent it." Then, in a calmer tone, she addressed herself to the two
men.
"Guard well your prisoner till my return. Allow him to communicate with
no one. Should he attempt to call out, gag him. But harm him not, or
you shall suffer for it." Then turning once more to St. Just, "Au
revoir, my husband, I shall return anon."
St. Just scowled at her, but made no reply. Then she left him.
Two days later, on the 30th of June, Captain Maitland commanding H.M.S.
Bellerophon received a quill that contained a note inscribed on tissue
paper. It was to warn him that Napoleon purposed leaving Rochefort for
America on the 3rd July, and to keep a sharp look-out to frustrate the
attempt.
It is a matter of history how, in consequence of the vigilance of the
English--eleven British men-of-war were cruising off the port--who had
received intelligence of his intention, Napoleon found it impossible to
get away.
Thus Halima's interview with Fouche had not been abortive, and, at last,
she had the satisfaction of feeling that she had struck a decisive blow
at the man she had chosen to consider as her enemy, and had so
persistently and, for the most part, fruitlessly conspired against.
Two hours later Halima returned to St. Just's apartments in the Hotel
Mirabeau. She found him seated in a chair, with his hands and feet
still bound and the two men guarding him.
The look of triumph on her face at her departure was no longer there;
now she showed trouble and depression--even fear. She had had time to
think, and, with reflection, had come the dread that she had offended
her husband past forgiveness. For years she had been dominated by two
emotions--a craving to achieve the ruin of Napoleon; and passion for her
husband--not, for a moment, that she was true to him when he was absent.
Of these, the former had been far the stronger. But now, this was
satisfied. She was free to devote herself entirely to her husband, to
let her passion for him have full play. More than anything, she now
desired to regain his love. But alas! she greatly feared she had
strained it past resilience; it was like a spring that had been
over-bent. She came in, shame-facedly, almost abjectly, tremblingly,
walking, like Agag, "delicately."
St. Just glanced sternly at her and frowned ominously.
"Why have you returned?" he asked; "to flout me with the tidings that
you have added yet another to the already crushing misfortunes of
France's greatest son."
"That I have prevented the escape from justice of her greatest
criminal."
Then she turned to the two men. "Loose this gentleman, but be careful
not to hurt him. Then leave us, but remain within call. I would speak
in private with my husband."
The men unbound St. Just, and then withdrew.
"Henri," she began, pleading in her gentlest tones, "forgive me. Now
that I have avenged myself upon the man I hated with a hatred that was
uncontrollable, that so filled my being that there was scarce a corner
for any other passion; now that, with its satisfaction, that hatred has
been swept away, love has rushed in upon me, like a torrent, to fill the
void; love for you, Henri, whom I acknowledge I have wickedly neglected
and used only for my own ends. I know you are angry with me now, and I
have merited your anger. But, oh! be generous and forgive me. I swear
that never again will I be otherwise than a true and devoted wife. All
my love, aye, all my being is now yours. You have no rival in my heart.
I will strive my hardest--but it will need no striving, for it will be
my chief delight--to compensate for my past neglect. For every year
that is added to the roll of time, I will give you ten years of love;
when painful memories assail you, I will chase them away with kisses;
should sickness come to you, I will be to you the gentlest, most patient
nurse that man could have; I will see only with your eyes; hear only
with your ears; speak only with your lips. My very thoughts shall be
enslaved to you--and proudly so. Oh! forget the troublous years we have
passed through, and let us start a new life together from to-day, never
to be parted for an hour."
All the time that she was pleading, she was gazing anxiously in his face
for the first sign of yielding; but she gazed in vain. She saw no
softening of the stern expression, no kindling of the cold, dark eyes,
no tinting of the deadly pallor of the face. Austere and motionless he
sat, listening, but in no wise moved. Napoleon himself could not have
looked more stern. And, all the while, he had uttered not a word.
She could see that she had made no impression, and it frightened her.
She had seen him furious before, but never with a look like this. An
awful fear came over her that she had lost him; she shivered, and her
face became as pale as his. For she was in deadly earnest; with all the
strength of her passionate nature, she loved him, and, at that moment,
felt that she could not survive the loss of him. But she would not yet
relinquish hope. She would exhaust all the armory of her persuasive
weapons first.
She threw herself on the ground and clasped him round the legs; then
turned her face up to him beseechingly, the tears streaming from her
eyes. "Henri," she wailed, "you terrify me when you look like that.
Oh! bend your eyes on me with love, as in the olden days. Am I less
beautiful than of yore? Men do not tell me so. Oh! recall the time of
Cairo and the desert, when our days and nights were wholly given up to
love, when we were all in all to one another. I can love; you know how
I can love, and you were never wearied with it; you used to say that you
never had enough, although I lavished all I had on you. Then I was an
untutored girl, with no knowledge that could interest a man; with
nothing but my love to give. Now I have learned much, and can hold my
own in the world of rank and intellect; men listen when I talk, and not
alone from courtesy, for they take counsel with me on the gravest
matters. You know this, Henri, you know that I am better fitted to be
your helpmeet than when first you loved me."
The anguish in her face was terrible, but still he sat implacable and
mute.
"Oh! cruel, cruel!" she went on; "will nothing touch your heart; or is
it turned to stone? Henri, my husband, give me back your love, forgive
me and take me to your heart again, or I shall die. I cannot live
without you. What, still obdurate? Oh! speak to me!"
Then he unloosed his tongue.
"Yes, I will speak. Traitress! Adulteress! for I know that, in my
absence, you forgot your honor as a wife, and gave rein to your
unbridled passions." She started and the blood rushed for an instant to
her face; then forsook it, and she became even whiter than before. But
she uttered no word of protest. "I have heard you patiently, but
unmoved. The time when your pleadings could beguile me, is past for
ever. I will do you the justice to believe that you are speaking from
your heart, but there is no response in mine. I acknowledge to the full
your beauty, but the glamour that enthralled me has passed away. Your
presence has become hateful to me, the touch of your fingers is
abhorrent. Till I knew you, I was an honorable man, with a career
before me in which my soul delighted, and in which I should have won
distinction. I might have become a Marshal of France; nay, I am sure, I
should, unless I had lost my life in battle; but, even so, I should have
preserved my honor.
"Then, one fatal day, I met you, and I loved you. Oh! how I loved you!
loved you so that I flung duty to the winds and betrayed my trust. I
blame you not for this; you were absolutely innocent, and you used no
perfidy to ensnare me. The fault was wholly mine. My love for you was
irresistible; for it, I forsook the colors of my country. And I was
happy in your love.
"For all that, although you were at first guiltless, my disgrace and
ruin are due to you. I could easily have made my peace with Buonaparte,
explained that I had been captured, and he would have forgiven me. My
advancement would have been rapid, in those stirring times; I might have
kept both love and honor. But you used my passion for my ruin; you
forced me to choose between the two, and I, in my infatuation, chose
love. And all to satisfy your devilish craving for revenge; and revenge
for what? For what you deemed a grievous wrong; but what, in the light
of your after conduct as a wife--for you have wronged me far more than
he wronged you, and in the same way too--you should have considered but
a venial error, born of impulse. From year to year you pursued Napoleon
with persistent hatred, and, though your machinations had no actual
consequence, yet the will to harm him never flagged. To gratify your
vengeful cravings, you played upon my love; and I, poor, weak, loving
fool, allowed it, and let you use me as you would, for the furtherance
of your schemes. And, after all, I did not get that for which I had
staked my honor. You know how little of your society I have had all
these years. While you were leading a life of luxury, lavishing your
smiles and meretricious charms on other men, I was scouring the
continent on your wicked errands, a traitor to my country, engaged in
petty trickery, at times suffering the greatest hardships, always in
peril of my life and liberty. Twice I underwent imprisonment, with the
fear of death before my eyes, and several times was wounded. And, for
all that my hardships were for love of you, yet you did not trust me,
but set your spies on me, and sent me on fool's errands, and baffled me
when I had my own ends to serve. Time after time I appealed to you; you
saw how I was suffering from the disgrace of my position, but nothing
moved you; you remained resolute and implacable; unless I worked your
will, I should not retain your love. Your love! You never loved me; it
was but the lust of passion, or you would not have used me thus. You
made of me your tool, your hireling, nay, your abject slave."
"I did, I did," she murmured. "I confess it all. I was mad with
hatred, and it so possessed me that I scarce knew what I did. But I
will devote my life to you henceforth. I will do my utmost to make up
for it, and will live only to do your will. I will be your slave now.
Oh! Henri! forgive me and take me to your heart again!"
She loosened her hands from his knees, and clasped them together and
knelt before him, abject in her abandonment, and gazed up at him
imploringly.
But her grief, her piteous appeal had no effect on him. The recollection
of all she had made him suffer had bereft him of compassion. His love
had died away. Gradually it had waned, and it was his many absences from
her side--her own doing--that had caused it; by slow degrees he had
learned to do without her; at first with torture, then, with
indifference, and finally with relief; and her act of two hours before
had brushed away the last vestige of his love. It was gone forever;
contempt and hatred had usurped its place.
"Never," he answered, "I have done with you for ever. Take your fatal
beauty to another market. At last I am free from its enslavement. You
deserve that I should strike you dead for all that you have made me
suffer; but you are not worth that a man should jeopardize his life to
punish you.
"Go, while I can control myself, for I would not have your murder on my
soul. But never see my face again, if you place any value on your life;
for, in such a case, I will not answer for your safety."
But his last words were inaudible to the wretched woman at his feet;
for, before he had finished speaking, she had swooned away.
Even then there was no relenting on his part; no thought of the many
hours when she had lain in his embrace, of the countless kisses they had
interchanged, of the words of love that each had whispered in the
other's ear. He looked down upon her sternly, not a gleam of pity in his
eye.
"Hola! there, without," he called. The two men came in.
"See to this woman, she has fainted." They looked at him suspiciously,
as though they thought he had used violence towards her.
He saw their glances. "Nay," he said, "I have not hurt her; her own
heart is her assailant; she has but swooned. I will leave you to restore
her. It would only add to her distress to see me when she returns to
consciousness. So soon as she is able to be moved, transport her to her
house, or where she will."
He strode to the door and left them, the men making no attempt to check
him.
He never saw his wife again.
At this point St. Just's MS. ends abruptly, so that his after life can
only be surmised. Probably, with Napoleon's banishment, he retired from
the French army, being unwilling to serve under the new regime. The
same uncertainty rests upon the fortunes of the beautiful Egyptian for
whom he had suffered and sacrificed so much; for, from the moment when
he left her swooning in his apartments at the Hotel Mirabeau, he makes
no mention of her.
A glimmer of light is shed on St. Just's own movements by the following
unfinished letter found with the MS. and transcribed below verbatim.
"On board the English ship Minerva
3rd May, 1821.
"My dear Garraud,
After years of silence, I take up my pen to write to you, my earliest
comrade; and what has moved me now I cannot say--some sudden impulse.
"At the moment of my writing, St. Helena, the living tomb of the great
Emperor, is fading out of sight.
"He is dying; so they told me yesterday. More than a year ago I saw
him. With the help of our friend Brenneau--you remember him, the
merchant captain--I landed at St. Helena. He had a message for this Sir
Hudson Lowe, whom, they have placed as keeper of the Emperor.
"When he had delivered this, we walked as far as Longwood, where
Napoleon lives.
"Night was falling, and a strong desire came over me to see him. I
concealed myself until it was quite dark, and then tapped gently at a
window. It was opened, and Count Bertrand looked out. This was better
luck than I had expected, for he knew me instantly, and helped me
through the window.
"In a few minutes, I stood before the Emperor. I saw a great change in
his appearance. He had gained much flesh since I had last seen him, and
there was a flabbiness, with an unhealthy pallor, about his face, that
indicated disease. The brightness of his eye was gone, and he looked
woefully dejected.
"He received me kindly, and seemed glad to see me, and talked with me of
by-gone days and various persons and events in France.
"I fell on my knees and begged him to forgive me for having mixed myself
up in plots against him.
"'Rise, Colonel St. Just,' he said, and he took me by the hand--me who
had conspired against him--'It is a pity we so long misunderstood each
other.'
"Then I wept. 'Ah Sire,' I cried, 'Had I known before what I have since
discovered, I should have acted differently.'
"'Ah, my friend,' he said, 'how many of us would act differently, did we
but know in time. But we cannot unlive the past, and regrets are vain.
I forgive you any wrong you did me. Think kindly of Napoleon, no matter
what the world may say of him.'
"Then, touched by his kindness, and weeping at the thought of all his
greatness come to this, I left him and rejoined Brenneau, and we made
our way back to the ship.
"We have remained together ever since, trading in Africa, and have made
money at it. We are now two days out on our way to Italy. On our
arrival, I will join you in Rome, and bring my memoranda of events in my
own life, from the rise of Napoleon's star to the time of its setting in
the lonely rockbound island. Together we will go over them again.
"I keep the papers in one of the old boxes in which I found the treasure
that I told you of. I have preserved it as a memorial of that marvelous
subterranean city.
"There is so much movement in the vessel, that I can scarce keep pen to
paper. It is blowing hard.
"Brenneau has just run down to say that a hurricane is approaching.
More, when the weather has calmed down again."
This unfinished letter was found in the box with the MS. referred to.
Probably the storm got worse, and St. Just had placed it there for
safety. What happened afterwards is not within mortal ken; whether the
ship went down with every soul on board; or St. Just or any others were
saved and landed on the volcanic isle on which the box was found; or
that it was floated thither by the waves; or sunk on the spot on which
the rock was afterwards thrown up; will remain for ever