Part 43 (1/2)

”Aim!” cried the sharp voice of the Marquis, and the guns came up to the shoulders of the long line, as they bent their heads and mechanically squinted along the barrels.

The moment had come! Out in the front had ridden the familiar figure on the white horse. They could see the details of his person now. His pale face was flushed under the familiar black, three-cornered c.o.c.ked hat with its tricolor c.o.c.kade, his gray redingote was b.u.t.toned across his breast.

He suddenly raised his hand. The drums stopped beating, the moving grenadiers halted. Ah, at last!

The Emperor sprang from his horse, not heavily, as of late, but with some of the alertness of a boy. He nodded to the ranks. Old General Cambronne, in command of the Guard, stepped forward. He took from the colour-bearer the Eagle. Four grenadiers of the Colour Guard closed about him--one of them was called Bullet-Stopper, by the way. In rear and a little to the right of the Emperor he moved, holding up the flag and the Eagle. A deep breath, almost a sob, ran down the line of the regiment. Protended guns wavered. Napoleon stepped forward. He threw back his gray overcoat, disclosing the familiar green uniform of the Cha.s.seurs of the Guard, which he affected. The cross of the Legion of Honor glittered on his breast, a s.h.i.+ning mark at which to aim.

The flush on his ivory face died as quickly as it had come. He was apparently as composed and as steady as if he had been cut out of granite. But tiny beads of sweat bedewed his brow, shaded by that familiar c.o.c.ked hat. What would the next moment disclose? Would he be a prisoner, the laughing stock, the jest of Europe? Or would he lie dead in the road, a French bullet in his heart? He had faced the guns of every people in Europe, but he had never faced French guns before. Would any finger in that line press a trigger? Only G.o.d knew, but the Emperor would soon find out. Better death than exile without wife, child, friend, or France. On the hazard of the moment he staked all. Yet he who could have looked into that broad breast could have seen that heart beating as never before. Firmly he stepped on.

CHAPTER XXVII

COMRADE! GENERAL! EMPEROR!

”Behold the traitor,” shouted the Marquis, his emotion lending depth to that thin voice. ”Fire, soldiers!”

No finger pressed a trigger. The silence was ghastly.

Ah! a thrill of hope in the breast of the greater Captain, of despair in the heart of the lesser.

”By G.o.d!” muttered Yeovil, ”he has lost them!”

The Marquis spurred his horse forward.

”Your oath! For France! The King! Fire!” he shouted.

And now a greater voice broke the silence.

”Comrades! Do you not know me?” said the Emperor. Was there a tremble in his clear, magnificent voice? He paused, his speech stopped.

”Behold your General,” he resumed. He waited a few seconds again and then finally, desperately, ”Let any one among you who wishes to kill his Emperor fire--now.”

He raised his voice tremendously with that last word. It almost came with the force and clearness of a battle-cry. The Marquis sat stupefied, his face ghastly pale.

”There is yet time,” he cried hoa.r.s.ely at last. ”Is there none here faithful to his King? Fire!”

But the gun-barrels were coming down. ”_Comrade! General! Emperor!_”

who could be indifferent to that appeal? Disregarding the old Marquis absolutely, as if he were not on the earth, the Emperor came nearer smiling. He was irresistible to these soldiers when he smiled.

”Well,” he said, his hands outstretched and open, ”soldiers of the Fifth, who were with me in Italy, how are you all? I am come back to see you again, _mes enfants_,” he went on genially. ”Is there any one of you who wishes to kill me?”

”No, no, Sire. Certainly not,” came the cry.

”Escape,” whispered the Marquis to the Englishman, ”while there is yet time to take my niece away. To you I commit her... . St. Laurent, to the town with the tidings!”

”By G.o.d, no,” growled Yeovil, as St. Laurent saluted and galloped rapidly down the road. ”I am going to see the end of this. The d.a.m.ned cravens!” he muttered, looking at the soldiers.

”And yet,” continued Napoleon to the troops, ”you presented your guns at me.”

”Sire,” cried one of the veterans, dropping his musket and running his ramrod down the barrel, ”it is not loaded. We only went through the motions.”

The Emperor laughed. He was nearer.