“FATHER PARIS FOR MOTHER MOSCOW.”
“Lay the sword on his breast; there’s no spot on its blade
In whose cankering breath his bright laurels will fade:
It was taken up first at humanity’s call;
It was sheathed with sweet mercy when glory was all.”
The passion and the tumult, the glory and the agony of the next day
will live in History as long as History herself lives to depict the
scenes of blood and violence which earth has witnessed. No battle in
that terrible war was more hotly or more obstinately contested than the
battle of Paris; although it ought to be remembered that it was not
the men of Paris who contested every inch of ground with the Allies,
but the corps of Marmont and Mortier, old soldiers of Napoleon, the
National Guard, and the youths of the Ecole Polytechnique.
The sun that shone upon that long day’s conflict was already near its
setting when Ivan, with the rest of the Chevalier Guard, was still
straining every nerve to drive the French from the Butte de Chaumont,
an important height commanding the city. It is not enough to say that
he fought with gallantry: all did that. He fought as one whose whole
soul was in the work--who was conscious of no thought, no impulse, no
resolve save that Paris must be won for the Czar that day. His horse
was at a gallop; his red sabre was driving the fleeing French before
him; the crest of the hill was reached; the city lay outspread beneath
his feet;--when a well-aimed bullet grazed the top of his silver
cuirass, and passed through his right shoulder. Faint and dizzy, he
still pressed on. To be stopped _now_ would be intolerable. But in
another moment his senses reeled; all things grew dim about him. He had
barely time to thrust the colours which he held into the hand of the
comrade nearest him; then, after clutching vainly at the mane of his
horse, he found himself lying under its hoofs. Immeasurably bitter was
the thrill of disappointment that flashed through him ere consciousness
departed. “I shall _not_ enter Paris with my Czar,” he murmured with
his failing voice. After that he knew nothing.
When he came to himself he was still lying on the ground where he had
fallen. Blood was flowing freely from the wound in his shoulder, but no
hoof of horse had grazed him as he lay--all had passed him by, sparing
the fallen, as those noble and gentle creatures so often do. He heard
voices near him, and to his joy they spoke in _Russian_. Then the Butte
de Chaumont was theirs yet! He raised himself with an effort, and
looked about him. It was night, but lights were blazing all around. A
party of artillery occupied the height which he and his comrades had
won for them, and the gunners were standing, match in hand, beside
their loaded pieces. It was evident that the word of command to fire
upon the city that lay outspread beneath them was expected every
instant. Fierce and eager was the excitement. The passionate, exulting
anticipation which kindled every eye and throbbed in every heart
resounded on all sides in “houras” and “vivas,” while from lip to lip
along the ranks the cry was echoed and re-echoed, “Father Paris, you
shall pay for Mother Moscow!”
A voice near Ivan--a voice that Ivan knew--exclaimed, in tones of
deepest emotion, “Thank God and the saints, we have our revenge this
night for our beautiful and holy city, laid in ashes--ay, and for our
dead, our _murdered_! Anna Popovna, in _thy_ name I send the messenger
of Death into the homes of the infidel Nyemtzi.”
“Michael! Michael Ivanovitch!” Ivan called in a faint and quivering
voice.
Fortunately Michael heard the sound, and moved towards the spot whence
it came. “Great St. Nicholas!” exclaimed he, “it is Barrinka!”
A good soldier always knows what to do for a wounded comrade. Water,
mixed with a little brandy, was quickly borne to the lips of Ivan; and
gladly would Michael have bound the wound himself, only he thought it
right to yield the privilege to some one who had the use of both his
hands. “But what shall we do for linen?” asked the gunner who undertook
the surgeon’s office.
“Here is the very thing we want!” cried Michael, delightedly producing
from his knapsack a clean white cambric handkerchief.
“A token from some fair one, I suppose,” said his comrade with a laugh,
as he took it from his hand.
“A token from some one harder to find,” returned Michael. “From a
Frenchman with a notion of justice and mercy in his head.”
“The Frenchmen shall learn what justice is before the dawn of
to-morrow’s sun,” said the gunner with a dark and angry look.
He bound Ivan’s wound as well as he could, gave him a little more
brandy and water, and then, with Michael’s assistance, placed him on a
kind of couch made of cloaks and blankets. Meanwhile their companions
kindled a fire, the warmth of which proved welcome to all the party.
“I feel quite comfortable now,” said Ivan. “Thank you, my brothers.”
At that moment an exclamation of amazement broke from the entire group.
Upon a pole, on an eminence near them, a white flag was visible through
the darkness. Bitter murmurs, even cries of disappointment, began to be
heard. “Can it be,” cried Michael, “that they are dreaming of a truce
now--now--with the city in our very hands? It must be those accursed
treacherous Austrians or those fools of Prussians who are showing the
white feather. But the Czar will never listen to them--_never_!”
“Never!” eagerly assented all around. “He remembers the flames of
Moscow.”
They were not left long in suspense. Presently an aide-de-camp,
galloping along the lines, brought the orders of the Czar: “Extinguish
your matches. Pile your muskets. The city is about to capitulate.”
The order was obeyed, but with a great and bitter cry, like the cry of
a wild beast that sees his prey escape him. Rage and disappointment
filled every heart to overflowing. Michael flung himself on his knees
beside his now useless gun, covering his face with his one hand, while
the tears rolled down his weather-beaten cheeks.
Touched by his distress, Ivan called him to his side. “What is the
matter, friend?” he asked gently.
“Matter, Barrinka? Matter enough to break the heart of a man who has
marched from Moscow to Paris with only one thought, one hope in his
heart--the hope of vengeance.”
“I cannot blame you, Michael. You have bitter wrongs to avenge.”
“Ay, Barrinka,” answered he, choking down the emotion he did not
wish to betray. “I see nothing day and night but that sweet pale
face with the look of death upon it. Only killing Nyemtzi makes it
go away now and then for a little while. All this time I have been
thinking, perhaps if we kill Nyemtzi enough--kill and destroy them
utterly--_utterly_,” he repeated, sending out the word with a hissing
sound through his clenched teeth, “that face may go or change--change
back again,” he added more gently, “to the old happy look it used to
have in the bygone days when she was my betrothed, before the Nyemtzi
came and ruined everything.”
“I think, Michael, there may be another way to bring the change you
long for,” began Ivan; but Michael interrupted him.
“No!” he cried passionately--“no way but killing Nyemtzi. That is all
the joy left me now upon earth. And the Czar will not let us do it.”
“He will not,” said Ivan. “That is true. Remember, Michael, that he who
forbids it is the Czar Alexander Paulovitch--no one else.”
“If it _were_ any one else,” returned Michael gloomily, “we should tear
him to pieces.”
“What do you suppose has made the Czar forbid it? Ever since we entered
this land of the enemy, he has held back his avenging armies, as one
might hold a bloodhound in the leash from springing on his prey. Is it
that _he_ has no wrongs to revenge; that _he_ has forgotten holy Moscow
and the Kremlin and the outraged tombs of his fathers?”
“‘The Czar is God upon earth,’” said Michael, quoting the proverb of
his people. “He does what he pleases. How could such as I pretend
to understand him?--Are you suffering, Barrinka?” he asked, as Ivan
stirred uneasily and shivered.
“Not much. I think it is the chill before the morning that I feel. Wrap
that cloak around me, please, and give me a little more brandy.”
Michael did so, saying, as he tried to fasten the cloak, “If I had my
other hand, I would do it better for you, Barrinka.”
“You have done it well, my friend; but you must often miss your hand,
and regret its loss.”
“Regret it!” cried Michael with the old enthusiasm flashing from his
eyes. “_Never!_ Did I not give it for the Czar?”
“Michael, listen to me. As you love and honour the Czar, so the Czar
loves and honours _his King_.”
“_His_ king?” repeated Michael, wondering. But a moment afterwards he
made the sign of the cross. “I understand,” he said in a lower voice.
Ivan resumed: “The thought of vengeance may have been dear to him--dear
as was your hand to you--still at the command of his King, and for his
sake, it was surrendered, and that joyfully. You see?”
“I see.” Michael relapsed into silence, and stood gazing thoughtfully
upon the city spread out beneath their feet, and growing every moment
clearer in the dawning light. At last he said, turning once again to
Ivan, “Barrinka, it is true I gave my hand for the Czar. But I never
thought he would care--or even hear of it. He did though; he spoke
to me with his own lips. He thanked me, and said I had been found
faithful. Not _one_ hand, but two, would have been well lost for that.
But will his King speak to the Czar and thank him?”
“Yes,” Ivan answered, “he will, thought I cannot tell how. God has many
ways of speaking to his servants.”
In due time the day broke, and the sun arose over Paris. Then came
relief and refreshment for the troops, and surgical help and care
for the wounded. Then came also the tidings, flashing from rank to
rank, “The capitulation is signed. The city has surrendered _without
conditions_. At half-past three o’clock this morning, the keys of Paris
were placed in the hands of Alexander.”