Part 44 (1/2)
”He will be free.”
”Thank G.o.d!” cried the girl, and then she remembered her uncle. ”And the Marquis?” she asked.
”My dearest Laure,” said the kindly, sympathetic voice of Captain Frank Yeovil, stepping out of the twilight of the hall into the bright light of the little drawing-room where last night she had bade farewell to Marteau, ”prepare yourself for some dreadful----”
”Yes, yes, I know,” she interrupted. ”The Emperor is here.”
”The troops went over to him.”
”And my uncle?”
”He----”
”Speak, monsieur. What has happened? Did the Emperor----”
”No one harmed him. He could not survive the disgrace, mademoiselle.
Prepare yourself.”
”Oh, for G.o.d's sake, delay not your tidings.”
”He died like a soldier of France on the field, by his own hand rather than survive what he wrongfully thought his shame.”
It was the policy of the Emperor to be merciful; it was his wish to be clement. If possible, he wanted peace. If mercy and gentleness could get it he could have it. He gave free permission to Sir Gervaise Yeovil and his son to return to England. He made no objection to their taking with them the Countess Laure, now the last of the line. He, himself, was present at the funeral of the Marquis, who was buried with all the military honors of his rank and station. There were generous hearts among those Frenchmen. As the representative of the King they had hated him, but when he had died so gallantly rather than survive what his nice sensibility believed to be his dishonor, his failure at any rate, they honored him. If he had been a Marshal of France they could have done no more.
Marteau, restored to his rank and position as aide to the Emperor, had but a few moments with the grief-stricken woman.
”No,” she said sadly, ”it makes no difference. You know my heart. No words that I can utter could add anything more to the testimony I have given you. But I had promised my uncle, and now that he is dead, the promise is doubly sacred. I must go. Thank your Emperor for me for all he has done for me, his enemy, and for my friends, and for what he has done for you. Tell him the story of the Eagle, and the little part in it that I played and--you will not forget me as I will not forget you.”
”G.o.d grant,” said the young soldier, ”that I may die for France on some battlefield, my last thought of you.”
”Ah, if that should befall you, I should envy you your rest. Would to G.o.d I might look forward to such a quick and happy ending,” said the grief-stricken woman, turning away.
The next morning, with great ceremony and much rejoicing, the Eagle was brought out, and the Emperor once more presented it to the regiment.
He did more than that. He signalized the action of the Fifth-of-the-Line, the news of which had been sent broadcast by couriers and which struck a keynote for the army to follow, by incorporating it as a supplementary Fifth regiment of Grenadiers of the Guard. He promised them a new flag and new bearskins. He promoted Lestoype to be a lieutenant-colonel, Labedoyere to be a general, and promised every veteran officer his old rank or higher in the new army to be formed. The men were promised bounties and rewards, and, with high hopes and glorious antic.i.p.ations, the march for Paris was begun.
So by the wayside and in the fields around this little army in that springtime, the violets bloomed again.
BOOK III
THE LAST TRY
CHAPTER XXVIII
AT THE STAMP OF THE EMPEROR'S FOOT
The wonderful genius of Napoleon, which had been so clearly manifested in so many ways during his varied career, was never exhibited to better advantage than in the three months after his return from Elba. During that period he reorganized the government, recreated and reequipped an army. The veterans flocked to his standards, and within the time mentioned he had actually two hundred and fifty thousand men under arms.
With the better moiety of this force, the best armed, the best equipped, the best officered contingent, he took the field early in the month of June. The Emperor did not want war any more than France did. He began his new reign with the most pacific of proclamations, which probably reflected absolutely the whole desire of his heart. But the patience of Europe had been exhausted and the belief of rulers and peoples in the honesty of his professions, declarations or intentions, had been hopelessly shattered.
His arrival effected an immediate resurrection of the almost moribund Congress of Vienna. The squabbling, arguing, trifling plenipotentiaries of the powers had burst into gigantic laughter--literally, actual merriment, albeit of a somewhat grim character!--when they received the news of Napoleon's return. They were not laughing at Napoleon but at themselves. They had been dividing the lion's skin in high-flown phrases, which meant nothing, endeavoring to incorporate the Decalogue and the Sermon on the Mount in their protocols and treaties, when they suddenly discovered that the Emperor was still to be reckoned with.