AFTER WATERLOO.
“Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the cross of Christ, my God;
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to his blood.”
“A great battle! Napoleon is annihilated! Wellington and the English
have done it!” Such was the cry with which Tolstoi rushed breathless
into the guard-room where Ivan and others were sitting. The tidings
were not wholly unexpected, and yet they came with startling swiftness
and suddenness. Only a few days before had Napoleon disclosed his
real design, and poured his troops into Belgium. So rapidly had this
movement been effected, that while Wellington was actually engaged in
writing to the Czar to arrange a plan for an offensive campaign, the
French had advanced upon the British and Prussian cantonments, and
the firing had begun. Wellington’s letter was dated the 15th of June,
and by the evening of the 18th--one of the most momentous days in the
world’s history--Napoleon was a ruined and despairing fugitive.
It was only natural if, after the first outburst of exulting joy at the
overthrow of the common enemy, the Russians remembered Moscow and the
glories of the German campaigns, and said sadly each to the other, “Ah,
why were not we there?”
“I do not grudge the English their laurels,” said the captain of
the Chevalier Guard. “They are a gallant race, and have been true
throughout to the cause of Europe and of freedom. But why were not
_we_ at hand, instead of Blucher and those Prussians, to stand by them
breast to breast?”
“We can only say, captain, it was the will of God,” answered Ivan. “He
sent the English and the Prussians to Belgium, and kept us here. He
knows--and all the world knows too--that the Czar was as ready for the
work as Wellington or Blucher, and would have done it quite as well.”
The Czar himself recognized in this event the hand of God, and was
satisfied. He had learned a lesson perhaps more difficult than that
of being ready to do any work required of him--he was “ready _not_
to do.” Without an afterthought of jealousy he saw the work he had
begun completed by another, to whom was given the crowning glory of
dealing the fatal blow to the enemy _he_ had first grappled with and
overthrown. The heart-felt joy with which he gave thanks for the
victory of Waterloo was deepened by the thought that the blood of his
Russians, shed so freely before in the cause of Europe, had now been
mercifully spared.
Three weeks afterwards the allied sovereigns entered Paris once more,
and Louis Dix-huit returned in their wake. A second time had the way to
his capital been made safe for him by his “dear friends the enemies,”
as he sarcastically and ungratefully styled his deliverers.
The Chevalier Guard attended their imperial master, and Ivan had the
intense joy of a reunion with his young bride. His return was far
more speedy than they had either of them dared to hope, and their
hearts were filled with thankfulness. Madame de Salgues had removed
from Versailles into the city, where she had taken a small house in a
fashionable quarter, and Ivan obtained permission to reside with his
friends.
Many things had happened during his absence; he had much to hear as
well as to tell. The “Hundred Days” had left their impress upon all
the household. Madame de Salgues told him she had come to Paris as
much from a determination to defy “General Buonaparte” as from a sense
of the insecurity of a town like Versailles in such troublous times.
Henri, strange to say, had reaped advantage from the general confusion.
When the power of Napoleon was re-established, Madame de Talmont
deplored that the army, as a career for her son, was of course out of
the question; and Henri thought this a favourable moment for broaching
the ideas he had already uttered in confidence to Ivan. They were
received much better than he had ventured to expect; and he was now,
with his mother’s consent, studying under a celebrated architect. “One
must sometimes sacrifice one’s feelings,” she said, “though _never_
one’s principles. And, after all, what to do? The army is no longer a
place for a man of honour; the bar you do not like; and to the Church
there is at least one objection,--I do not wish the noble name of
Talmont to die with you.”
Emile was now a resident under the roof of his grandmother; he had
ceased to wear the uniform of the Ecole Polytechnique. With a few other
students who made their imperialism very obtrusive during the Hundred
Days, he had the honour of sharing in the downfall of his hero by
being expelled at the return of the Bourbons. This ended not only his
military and scientific education, but, at least for the present, his
hopes of obtaining a commission.
A day or two after his arrival, Ivan inquired for M. de Sartines and
his daughter, whom he had not yet seen.
“No doubt they will be here to-morrow,” Madame de Salgues answered.
“They know you are with us. Besides, we are their near neighbours now,
and they seldom leave us three days without a visit.”
“Wish they would leave us three weeks!” said Emile. “That little girl
is a perfect nuisance.”
“My dear boy, how very ungallant you are!” Madame de Salgues observed.
“Still,” she added, “I must own that Mademoiselle Stéphanie is not by
any means improved.”
“Not altogether _her_ fault, poor child!” put in Clémence.
“Oh, _you_ always speak for her, ma cousine, because she is like your
shadow,” said Emile. “Three mornings in the week, at least, Prince
Ivan, she comes here. ‘Papa,’ she says,” and the lad imitated the
little girl’s tones--“‘papa will allow me to go to the Tuileries
gardens, or the Champs Elysées, or the Louvre, if Mademoiselle Clémence
will be so kind as to accompany me.’ She has not even the grace to say,
‘Madame la Princesse.’ But now _you_ have come, we shall have an end of
all that.”
“Then I am to understand,” said Ivan, greatly amused, “that the
deterioration in Mademoiselle Stéphanie’s character is owing to her
intercourse with Clémence?”
“Of course,” returned Emile laughing.
“There are those about her,” said Madame de Talmont more gravely, “who
encourage and applaud her pert speeches; and that, to a child, is
absolute cruelty.”
“Who _did_ encourage them during the Hundred Days, you mean to say,”
Emile resumed. “While the Emperor was in power, you were all of you
glad to hear, even from the lips of a child, whom no one could punish
or seriously blame, the impertinences the grown-up Legitimists were
longing to utter, but dared not.”
“Some of us,” said Madame de Salgues with dignity, “never condescended
to conceal our opinions. You will do me the justice to remember, Emile,
that I gave to every one, as my chief reason for coming into Paris, my
desire to show the usurper I was not afraid of him.”
“As if the Emperor--” Emile began indignantly, but fortunately checked
himself in time, and turned off his annoyance with a laugh. “You
forget, my dear grandmother,” he said, “that there was another reason
yet more potent. The truth is, Prince Ivan, we came into town to avoid
that poor M. de Cranfort. Since the auspicious morning when my cousin
became Madame la Princesse, the unfortunate gentleman has not been
quite in possession of his senses. It is reported that he carries two
loaded pistols about with him, and threatens to shoot first Clémence
and then himself.”
Every one present laughed heartily, assuring Ivan there was not a word
of truth in the story.
“As much, I suppose,” said Ivan in a low voice to Emile, “as in another
story you told me once--about M. de Sartines.”
“I am glad enough now _that_ was false,” Emile answered graciously.
“That child would have been the death of Clémence. I hope M. de
Sartines, if he does marry, will marry a dragon, able to keep her in
order. But really,” he added, “M. de Cranfort is not quite sane. I
have heard him say the most extraordinary things; and, do you know,
he was for some years at Charenton?” After a short pause, he resumed
suddenly--“Prince Ivan, how is the Emperor Alexander?”
“In excellent health,” said Ivan cheerfully.
“I am truly rejoiced to hear it.”
“Very kind of you,” returned Ivan smiling, but with a slight air of
surprise at his emphatic manner.
“Because,” resumed Emile, in a tone of mystery, “as we are all friends
here, I may observe that we have heard rumours--extraordinary rumours.”
“Do you mean about his illness at Vienna? It is true he had a fall from
his horse, and--”
“Oh, _that_ is nothing. That is not what I mean. But the strangest
things are said of him here, and in the best circles too, where you
know he was adored last year. In the Faubourg St. Germain all sorts
of ‘_on dits_’ are rife about him. People say he has become very
singular,--a fanatic, a pietist, and I know not what else; that a
certain crazy old lady--”
“Hush, hush, Emile,” said Madame de Salgues and Madame de Talmont
almost at the same moment. Clémence looked anxiously at Ivan, and Henri
started up indignantly. “I, at least, will not stay to listen to such
folly,” he said.
“A truce, for once, to your championship of the Czar,” said Emile. “I
suppose Prince Ivan may speak now.”
Ivan might have answered angrily, but for certain words which thrilled
through his heart, taking all the bitterness out of Emile’s reckless
taunts: “Esteeming the reproach of Christ greater riches than the
treasures of Egypt”--only _he_ said “the treasures of _Russia_,” and
the magnificent crown jewels he had seen in St. Petersburg flashed
before his eyes in a dazzling, bewildering maze of light and colour.
For a moment he did not speak; then he asked, with a gentleness that
surprised every one, “What were you going to say, Emile?”
“Nothing--at least not much,” was the rather apologetic answer.
“Rumour always exaggerates things, and most especially the rumour
of St. Germain. Perhaps it is _not_ true, after all, that Madame de
Krudener makes the Emperor Alexander fast and wear sackcloth; or that
she has persuaded him he is the white angel of peace, and Napoleon
the black demon of war; or that--but, as I say, these may be foolish
stories. Still it seems to be undeniable that the consummate artist,
who last year played the _rôle_ of magnanimous conqueror with such
_éclat_ amongst us, is now assuming, by way of variety, that of
medieval saint. Henri Quatre is masquerading in the guise of St. Louis.
Seriously,--what has come over him, Prince Pojarsky? Is his mind really
affected, or is it all some deep-laid political scheme?”
“Certainly, Emile, I am amazed at your audacity,” Madame de Salgues
interposed again. “Prince Ivan has the patience of a saint.”
“From _your_ lips, madame,” said Ivan bowing, “I accept the name as a
compliment; though others, it seems, use it for a reproach.--Emile, I
am not careful to answer you in this matter. You have but to watch the
course of events, and you will see that there is not a man in Europe of
sounder understanding than my Czar. Of what he has already accomplished
I need not remind you; and I had rather not, considering _whom_ he has
overcome. If his religious principles expose him to reproach, it is
only ‘the reproach of the foolish.’ They are not new to him, though of
late they have deepened and strengthened. All those stories you allude
to about his intercourse with Madame de Krudener are fabrications. The
grain of truth they contain is the fact that God has been pleased to
send him a message by the lips of a woman;--and why should he not?”
To this there was no answer, and the little party broke up. But Ivan
drew Emile aside. “I want a word with you,” he said. “Do you know in
what temper the minds of men are now?”
“Do you mean the minds of Royalists?” asked Emile bitterly. “That I do.
I believe that if they had the power they would put every Imperialist
of us all to the sword; or if not, it would only be to reserve us for
the dungeon and the scaffold. The Bourbons gnash their teeth upon us.
The Duchess of Angoulême says openly, ‘Mercy cannot be distinguished
from weakness.’”
“Ah, my friend, can you wonder? When that stern, sorrow-stricken woman
had a girl’s tender heart, it was turned to stone by the cruel murder
of both her parents and of her young innocent brother. But others who
have not the same wrongs to avenge are quite as eager for vengeance.”
“They are a bad set, those Bourbons,” said Emile.
“Certainly _I_ shall not plead for them. They have not used us or our
Emperor well. But consider that in the eyes of a German every Frenchman
is as odious as a Buonapartist can be in those of a Royalist. The
Prussians talk openly of dismembering France; and, Emile, who is to
hinder them? Not Louis--he is powerless; not Austria--she will share
the spoils; not England--she is just, and even generous, but do you
expect her to go to war single-handed in the cause of her enemies?”
“_One_ man would have hindered them,” said Emile--“he who is a captive
now. France will soon wish the Emperor back again.”
“I respect your faith in your hero, though I do not share it. But, my
dear Emile, you cannot deny that, however it has come to pass, the most
stupendous genius of modern times has proved, practically, the most
stupendous failure.”
“Is success always the test of greatness?”
“By no means. But Napoleon has always acted as though it were; has
aimed at it, lived for it, sacrificed everything to it, and finally
lost it. As he has now left--been forced to leave--his country to the
deadly enemies his ambition has raised up against her, what will the
end be, Emile?”
“Who can tell? As for me, I feel ready to hang myself.”
“Pray for the life and health of my Czar. You will see him stand
between the avengers and their prey; between prostrate France and
victorious Germany; and even, so far as becomes a foreigner, between
prostrate Imperialists and victorious Royalists.”
“That it should come to this! That France--our proud, glorious
France--should have to thank a Czar of Russia!”
“Where is the shame of thanking him, if God has given him the power to
befriend her?”
“_God?_” Emile repeated scornfully. “That’s your way of talking, you
Russians. Don’t you see now that it ends in folly and fanaticism?”
Ivan laid his hand on the shoulder of Emile. “My dear boy,” he said,
“do you know why I am talking with you thus? Not to make you believe
in my Czar. _His_ glory is in good keeping; and if you prefer Napoleon
for a hero, I have no more to say. The cause I want to plead with you
is not his, but your own. You call him fanatic and dreamer because of
his faith in God and in Christ. I want to show you that it is this very
faith which makes him generous, merciful, just.”
“I do not see the good of faith,” Emile broke in passionately. “I don’t
mean _religious_ faith, but faith of any kind. We had faith--oh, such
intense, glorious, undoubting faith--in the Emperor and in his star.
And we loved him so! You cannot understand it, Prince Ivan, but it is
true. Do you remember Henri’s friend, the Old ‘Garde’ Rougeard, who
came to tell me of the Emperor’s return? He fell at Waterloo; a comrade
of his, who crept back wounded to die amongst his children, told me
about it. When all was lost, the remnant of the Old Guard was called
upon to surrender. ‘La Garde meurt, mais ne se rend pas,’ was the proud
reply; and those brave men died where they stood.[63] Poor Rougeard
took the colours from the falling ensign, and with his dying hand
wrapped them round his breast. ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ was his last word.”
“And the Emperor lived, _after_ such followers as these,” said Ivan
with tears in his eyes. Emile saw the tears, and they did him more good
than a hundred admonitions. Ivan presently resumed: “Suppose, Emile,
that when your Emperor dies some one were to try to persuade the world
that he had never existed,--that his whole personality, life, and
career was a fiction from first to last?”
“Any one who tried it would be laughed at for his pains.”
“Of course. Every effect must have a cause. Men do not love, trust in,
die for that which is not, and never has been.”
“What are you trying to say?” asked Emile, a little surprised.
“That the existence of Christ is as certain as that of Napoleon.”
“Was. There was once such a Person, I am sure.”
“_He is._ In the year three thousand six hundred--if the world last so
long--who do you think will die for the name of Napoleon Buonaparte?
Who will love him, obey him, follow him as my Czar on his throne to-day
is not ashamed to confess that he loves and follows _his King_? Nay,
even the glory of my Czar will pass away, the jewels that sparkle in
his crown of fame will pale and wane (_that_ will not matter, for he
will have cast it long ere then at his Redeemer’s feet); but the glory
of Christ will last for ever and ever.”
“I know you really believe in the Christian religion. I cannot, but I
respect those who can.”
“I believe in _Christ_, Emile; and I want you to believe in him too. I
want you to search and look, and never rest until you find out--first
that he is, then that he is worthy of all your faith and love.”
“Where do you want me to look?”
“If you will, at the lives of those who profess this faith. See if it
does not produce better and nobler results than any other principle
of action. But I had far rather you looked at the picture of Christ
himself as you will find it in the holy Scriptures.”
“Well, I will try,” said Emile, evidently touched. “At least I can
read. I have more than time enough for reading now. I study mathematics
with Henri; but he is _so_ tiresome that every lesson ends in a
quarrel.--Last term I had the second prize at the Polytechnic, and now
I expected the first. Was it not hard to be turned out?”
“Very; but you have the consolation of suffering in the cause of your
Emperor. If I were you, Emile, I would study hard enough to show the
world I was no loser. And, one word more; I would keep away from
political meetings, _secret_ meetings especially, and eschew plots and
intrigues. They are only snares and pitfalls dug for the feet of those
who cling to a lost cause.”
“Lost!--Oh, Prince Ivan!”
“My friend, Napoleon has played his game and lost his stake. That is
plain to every one. But _you_ have the cards still in your hand. Do not
spoil your chance.”
“Do you mean my chance of success? I thought you despised success.”
“I mean your chance of a noble life. But I ought not to have said
‘chance.’ There is none.”
“There is destiny.”
“There is _will_. Your will, and God’s will, which means only good to
you, if you will accept it.”
“There is something in what you say,--especially about secret
meetings,” he added in a lower tone. “But it is late; I must go to
those mathematics. Good night.” He turned away, softly whistling
the air of a song very popular with the Imperialists, “Veillons au
salut de l’Empire.” “_I_ shall watch henceforward over the safety of
something else, very dear to Prince Pojarsky,” thought the conceited
but generous boy. “How little he guesses what plans we have talked
of--we Buonapartists--at those secret meetings he denounces! Such,
for instance, as the assassination of a certain great personage, in
_his_ innocent eyes the greatest in the world! But if ever again, in
my presence, any one dares to drop a hint on that subject, I swear the
words shall be his last!”