WHEN THE COSSACKS PASSED
For the first time in years the great hall of the Château d'Aumenier
was brightly lighted. The ancient house stood in the midst of a wooded
park adjacent to the village, overlooking one of the little lakes whose
outlets flowed into the Morin. In former days it had been the scene of
much hospitality, and, even after the revolution in the period of the
consulate and the early empire, representatives of the ancient house
had resided there, albeit quietly and in greatly diminished style. The
old Marquis Henri, as uncompromising a royalist soldier as ever lived,
had fled to England and had remained there. His younger brother,
Robert, compromising his dignity and his principles alike, had finally
made his submission to Napoleon and received back the estates, or what
had not been sequestrated. But he had lived there quietly, had sought
no preferment of the government--even rejecting many offers--and had
confined his recognition to as narrow limits as possible. He had
married and there had been born to him a daughter, whom he had named
after the ancient dames of his honorable house, Laure.
The Count d'Aumenier, living thus retired, had fallen into rather
careless habits after the death of his wife, and the little demoiselle
had been brought up indifferently indeed. Dark, brown-eyed,
black-haired, she had given promise of beauty to come. Left to her own
devices she had acquired accomplishments most unusual in that day and
by no means feminine. She could ride, shoot, swim, run, fence, much
better than she could dance the old courtly minuet, or the new and
popular waltz, just beginning to make its appearance. A love of
reading and an ancient library in which she had a free range had
initiated her into many things which the well-brought-up French girl
was not supposed to know, and which, indeed, many of them went to their
graves without ever finding out. The Count had a well-stored mind, and
on occasion he gave the child the benefit of it, while leaving her
mainly to her own devices.
Few of the ancient nobility had come back to the neighborhood. Their
original holdings had been portioned out among the new creations of the
Imperial Wizard, and with them the Count held little intercourse.
Laure d'Aumenier had not reached the marriageable age, else some of the
newly made gentry would undoubtedly have paid court to her. She found
companions among the retainers of her father's estate. The devotion of
some of them had survived the passionate hatreds of the revolution and,
failing the Marquis, who was the head of the house, they loyally served
his brother, and with pride and admiration gave something like feudal
worship and devotion to the little lady.
The Marquis, an old man now, had never forgiven his brother, the Count,
for his compromise with principle and for his recognition of the
"usurper," as he was pleased to characterize Napoleon. He had refused
even to accept that portion of the greatly diminished revenue of the
estate which the younger brother had regularly remitted to the Marquis'
bankers in London. The whole amount lay there untouched and
accumulating, although, as were many other emigrés, the Marquis
frequently was hard pressed for the bare necessities of life. With
every year, as Bonaparte--for that was the only name by which he
thought of him--seemed to be more and more thoroughly established on
the throne, the resentment of the Marquis had grown. Latterly he had
refused to hold any communication with his brother.
The year before the Battle of the Nations, or just before Napoleon set
forth on his ill-fated Russian adventure, Count Robert d'Aumenier died.
With an idea of amendment, which showed how his conscience had smitten
him for his compromise, he left everything he possessed to his brother,
the Marquis, including his daughter, Laure, who had just reached her
sixteenth year. With the will was a letter, begging the Marquis to
take the young demoiselle under his charge, to complete that ill-begun
and worse-conducted education, the deficiencies of which the father too
late realized, in a manner befitting her station, and to provide for
her marriage with a proper portion, as if she had been his own
daughter. The Marquis had never married himself, lacking the means to
support his rank, and it was probable that he never would marry.
The Marquis was at first minded to refuse the bequest and to disregard
the appeal, but an old retainer of the family, none other than Jean
Marteau, the elder, complying with Count Robert's dying wish, had taken
the young Countess Laure across the channel, and had quietly left her
in her uncle's care, he himself coming back to act as steward or agent
for the remaining acres of the shrunken Aumenier domain; for the
Marquis, having chosen a course and walked in it for so many years, was
not minded even for the sake of being once more the lord of Aumenier to
go back to France, since the return involved the recognition of the
powers that were.
Old Jean Marteau lived in his modest house between the village and the
château. And the château had been closed for the intervening time.
Young Jean Marteau, plodding along the familiar way, after a day full
of striking adventure and fraught with important news, instantly
noticed the light coming through the half moons in the shutters over
the windows of the château, as he came around a brow of the hill and
overlooked the village, the lake and the castle in the clearing. The
village was as dark as the château was light.
Marteau was ineffably weary. He had been without sleep for thirty-six
hours, he had ridden twenty leagues and walked--Heaven only knew how
many miles in addition. He had extricated himself from desperate
situations only by his courage, daring, and, in one or two cases, by
downright fighting, rendered necessary by his determination to acquire
accurate information for the Emperor. He had profited, not only by his
instruction in the military school, but by his campaigning, and he now
carried in his mind a disposition of the Russian forces which would be
of the utmost value to the Emperor.
The need of some rest, however, was absolute. Marmont's troops,
starting out at the same time he had taken his departure, would barely
have reached Sézanne by this time, so much more slowly did an army move
than a single person. The Emperor, who had intimated that he would
remain at Nogent until the next day, would scarcely undertake the march
before morning. Aumenier lay off to the northwest of Sézanne, distant
a few miles. If the young aide could find something to eat and get a
few hours' sleep, he could be at Sézanne before the Emperor arrived and
his information would be ready in the very nick of time. With that
thought, after staring hard at the château in some little wonderment,
he turned aside from the road that led to its entrance and made for the
village.
His mother had died the year before; his father and his sister, with
one or two attendants, lived alone. There was no noble blood in
Marteau's veins, as noble blood is counted, but his family had been
followers and dependents of the Aumeniers for as many generations as
that family had been domiciled in France. Young Jean Marteau had not
only been Laure d'Aumenier's playmate, but he had been her devoted
slave as well. To what extent that devotion had possessed him he had
not known until returning from the military school he had found her
gone.
The intercourse between the young people had been of the frankest and
pleasantest character, but, in spite of the sturdy respectability of
the family and the new principles of equality born of the revolution,
young Marteau realized--and if he had failed to do so his father had
enlightened him--that there was no more chance of his becoming a
suitor, a welcome suitor, that is, for the hand of Laure d'Aumenier
than there was of his becoming a Marshal of France.
Indeed, as in the case of many another soldier, that last was not an
impossibility. Men infinitely more humble than he in origin and with
less natural ability and greatly inferior education had attained that
high degree. If Napoleon lived long enough and the wars continued and
he had the opportunity, he, too, might achieve that coveted
distinction. But not even that would make him acceptable to Count
Robert, no matter what his career had been; and even if Count Robert
could have been persuaded the old Marquis Henri would be doubly
impossible.
So, on the whole, Jean Marteau had been glad that Laure d'Aumenier had
gone out of his life. He resolved to put her out of his heart in the
same way, and he plunged with splendid energy into the German campaign
of 1813, with its singular alternations of success and failure, of
victory and defeat, of glory and shame. He had been lucky enough to
win his captain's commission, and now, as a major, with a position on
the staff of the Emperor, he could look forward to rapid advancement so
long as the Emperor lasted. With the bright optimism of youth, even
though affairs were now so utterly hopeless that the wise old marshals
despaired, Marteau felt that his foot was on the first rung of the
ladder of fame and prosperity, and, in spite of himself, as he had
approached his native village, he had begun to dream again, almost to
hope.
There was something ominous, however, in the appearance of the village
in that dark gray evening hour. There were no barking dogs, no
clucking hens, no lowing cattle, no sounds of childish laughter, no
sturdy-voiced men or softer-spoken women exchanging greetings. The
stables and sheds were strangely silent.
The village was a small one. He turned into it, entered the first
house, stumbled over a corpse! The silence was of death. With a
beating heart and with a strength he did not know he possessed, he
turned aside and ran straight to his father's house.
Standing by itself it was a larger, better and more inviting house than
the others. The gate of the surrounding stone wall was battered off
the hinges, the front door of the house was open, the garden was
trampled. The house had been half destroyed. A dead dog lay in front
of the door. He could see all that in the half light. He ran down the
path and burst into the wrecked and plundered living room. A few
feeble embers still glowed in the broad hearth. From them he lighted a
candle standing on the mantel shelf.
The first sight that greeted him was the body of his sister, her torn
clothing in frightful disarray, a look of agony and horror upon her
white set face under its dishevelled hair. She was stone dead. He
knelt down and touched her. She was stone cold, too. He stared at
her, a groan bursting from his lips. The groan brought forth another
sound. Was it an echo? Lifting the candle, he looked about him. In a
far corner lay a huddled human body. He ran to it and bent over it.
It was his father. Knowing the house like a book, he ran and fetched
some water. There were a few mouthfuls of spirits left in a flask of
vodka he had found in the Russian's overcoat. He bathed his father's
face, forced a few drops of the strong spirit down his throat, and the
old man opened his eyes. In the flickering light he caught sight of
the green cap and coat.
"Curse you," he whispered.
"My father!" cried the young officer. "It is I."
"My son!"
"What has happened?"
"The Cossacks--I fought for the honor of your sister. Where----" the
old man's voice faltered.
"She is dead yonder," answered the son.
"Thank God," came the faint whisper from the father. "Mademoiselle
Laure--she--the wagon-train--the castle----"
His voice died away, his eyes closed. Frantically the young man
recalled his father to his senses again.
"It's no use," whispered the old man, "a ball in the breast. I am
going. What do you here?"
"On the service of the Emperor," answered the young officer. "Father,
speak to me!"
"Alas--poor--France," came the words slowly, one by one, and
then--silence.
Marteau had seen death too many times not to know it now. He laid the
old man's head gently down, he straightened his limbs, he went over to
the form of the poor girl. To what horrors she had been
subjected--like every other woman in the village--before she died!
Like his father, he thanked God that she was dead. He lifted her up
tenderly and laid her down on a huge settle by the fireplace. He stood
a moment, looking from one to the other. The irreligion of the age had
not seized him. He knelt down and made a prayer. Having discharged
that duty, he lifted his hands to heaven and his lips moved. Was he
invoking a curse upon these enemies? He turned quickly and went out
into the night, drawing the door behind him, fastening it as tight as
he could.
He forgot that he was hungry, that he was thirsty, that he was tired,
that he was cold. For the moment he almost forgot his duty toward his
Emperor and France, as he walked rapidly through the trees toward the
great house. But as he walked that stern obligation came back to him.
His sister was dead, his father murdered. Well, the first Cossack he
came upon should pay. Meanwhile there was his duty. What had his
father said?
"The Cossacks--the wagon-train--the Countess Laure."
What did it mean? Part of it was plain enough. The Cossacks had
raided the village, his father had been stricken down defending his
daughter, his sister had died. That was easy, but the wagon-train, the
castle, the Countess Laure? Could she have come back? Was that the
occasion for the lights in the château? That body of cavalry that he
had seen leaving Sacken's men that morning with the civilians--was she
that woman? The mystery would be solved at the château. And it was
there he had arranged to meet his comrade, anyway.
He stopped and looked back at the devastated village. Already a light
was blazing in one of the houses. It would soon be afire. He could do
nothing then. The château called him. He broke into a run again,
heavy-footed and tired out though he was. Around the château in the
courtyard were dozens of wagons. His experienced glance told him that
they were army wagons, containing provisions, arms, ammunition. Some
of the covers had been raised to expose the contents. There was not a
living man present, and scarcely a living horse. There had been some
sort of a battle evidently, for the wagons were in all sorts of
confusion and there were dead men and horses everywhere. He did not
stop to examine them save to make sure that the dead men were French,
proving that the convoy had come from Paris. He threaded his way among
the wagons and finally reached the steps that led to the broad terrace
upon which rose the château.
The main door was open. There were no soldiers about, which struck him
as peculiar, almost terrifying. He went up the steps and across the
terrace, and stopped before the building, almost stumbling over the
bodies of two men whose uniforms were plainly Russian! He inspected
them briefly and stepped toward the door of the entrance hall. It was
open but dimly lighted, and the light wavered fitfully. The faint
illumination came into the hall from a big broad open door upon the
right, giving entrance to what had been the great room. Still keeping
within the shadow, he moved carefully and noiselessly into the hall,
until he could get a view of the room beyond.
A huge fire was burning in the enormous fireplace. The many tables
with which the room had been furnished had been pushed together in the
center, several tall candles pulled from the candelabra and fastened
there by their own melted wax stood upon these tables and added their
illumination to the fire-light. Several men in uniforms, two of them
rough-coated Cossacks, and two whose dress showed clearly that they
belonged to the Russian Imperial Guard, lay on the floor, bound and
helpless. A stout, elderly man, in civilian garb, with a very red face
and an angry look, his wig awry, was lashed to a chair. Between two
ruffianly looking men, who held her firmly, stood a woman.
There were perhaps two dozen other men in the room, unkempt, savage,
brutal, armed with all sorts of nondescript weapons from ancient
pistols to fowling pieces, clubs and scythes. They were all in a state
of great excitement, shouting and gesturing madly.
The woman standing between the two soldiers was in the full light. So
soon as he caught sight of her Marteau recognized her. It was Laure
d'Aumenier. She had grown taller and more beautiful than when he had
seen her last as a young girl. She had been handled roughly, her
clothes were torn, her hair partially unbound. Her captors held her
with an iron grasp upon her arms, but she did not flinch or murmur.
She held herself as erect and looked as imperious as if she had been on
a throne.