There was no rest for Napoleon that night. Undoubtedly he was not now the man he had been. Paralyzing physical disabilities before and after interfered with his movements. The enormous strains to which he had subjected his body and brain sometimes resulted in periods of mental blindness and physical prostration. It was whispered that a strange malady—was it some form of epilepsy?—sometimes overcame the Emperor so that his faculties and abilities were in abeyance for hours. No man had ever abused such wonderful mental and physical gifts as he originally had possessed by subjecting them to such absolutely impossible strains as he, and Nature was having her revenge. But for that week in February and for a time thereafter there was a strange and marvelous return of the Emperor's physical powers.

He had sustained more fatigue than any man in the army, because to all of the personal sufferings of the march in the long day and the sleepless night and the conduct of the battle had been added responsibility, but he was as fresh as a boy. His pale cheek showed rare color; his eyes sparkled; his voice was clear and sharp. The nervous twitching of his mouth ceased. The gray look vanished. He was once more the boyish Captain of the Army of Italy, at whom the huge grenadiers laughed and the gray-headed veterans marveled.

The Emperor's scouts had been hard at work during the day. They were constantly coming and going at his headquarters at Champaubert with detailed accounts of the situation of the Russians and the Prussians. The Emperor had a momentous decision to make. From the position he had gained it was equally as easy for him to strike east as to strike west. He decided at last to strike west, realizing that no captain, much less fiery old Bluecher, without an absolute forfeiture of his reputation as a soldier could afford to leave his van unsupported, but that the Prussian Field Marshal must advance to its support. If the Emperor's plans worked out, he could destroy that van, and then turn back and mete out the same fate to the main body coming to its rescue.

Just about ten miles away to the westward, on the main road to Paris by way of La Ferte-sous-Jouarre, lay the village of Montmirail. As many miles beyond Montmirail, on the same Paris road, Sacken, with twenty thousand men, had been advancing. From Montmirail a road led northward to Chateau Thierry and the crossing of the Marne, behind which Macdonald had been driven by Yorck, with perhaps fifteen thousand more. The Emperor decided to seize Montmirail, throw out a corps to hold back Yorck on the northern road, while he crushed Sacken on the other with the remainder of the army, except one corps, which he would leave at Champaubert to delay Bluecher's advance. These army corps were in reality nothing more than weak divisions, less than seven thousand strong.

Early in the afternoon Marteau, with old Bullet-Stopper and the little squadron of Maurice's cavalry, had rejoined the Emperor. He had been greatly refreshed by his night's sleep. He had taken advantage of the early hours of the morning to bury his father and sister, saying such prayers as he could remember, in default of the parish priest, who had been murdered. The Emperor having sent a courier with an escort back to Nogent, the Countess Laure and her English friend had elected to go with them. They feared to be left alone in the chateau all day, in the disturbed state of the country, and it was easier, perhaps, to reach Paris from Nogent by way of the Seine than by going direct from Sezanne. Marteau had approved of their decision.

The parting between the young people had been as formal as possible. The Englishman, on the contrary, with true British hospitality, had said that if peace ever came he would indeed be glad to welcome him at his home in England. Marteau had sworn to hold the chateau and its land in trust for the Countess, although she protested she would not hear of anything of the kind. And then he had bade her farewell. He had arrived in time to take part in the hard fighting at the close of the day, and had been busy during the early part of the night in carrying messages and resuming his duties at headquarters.

At two o'clock in the morning Napoleon threw himself down on a peasant's bed in a hut and slept until four. At that hour he awakened and summoned the officer on duty. Marteau presented himself. The Emperor, as refreshed by his two hours of sleep as if he had spent the night in a comfortable bed, addressed the young man familiarly. None could unbend better than he.

"My good Marteau," he began. "But stop—Monsieur le Comte d'Aumenier"—he smiled—"I have not forgot. Berthier has orders to send to Paris to have your patent of nobility made out and to see that the confiscated Aumenier lands are transferred to you."

"I thank your Majesty," said the young aide, deeming it wiser to say nothing of his ultimate intentions regarding the patent of nobility and the estates.

"It would be a fine thing," said the Emperor, "if you and that girl should come together. She is the last of her line, I understand, save her old uncle in England, who is unmarried and childless. Is it not so?"

"That is true, Sire."

"Well, you couldn't do better. She is a woman of spirit and resolution. Her prompt action in the chateau last night showed it. I commend her to your consideration. Were I your age and in your station I should like nothing better."

"Your Majesty anticipated my desire, my own proposition, in fact."

"What? You struck while you had the opportunity? That was well."

"But, unlike you, Sire, I struck unavailingly."

"The lady refused?"

"Positively. She is of the oldest family in France, while I——"

"Marteau," said the Emperor sharply, "no more of that. If you cannot be a descendant, be an ancestor. Look at me. My family began at Montemotte, and to-day the mother of my son is a Hapsburg!"

"But she is engaged to the son of that Englishman, Sire."

"Bah, what of that? Engagements can be broken, marriages even dissolved. The Holy Father at Rome will refuse me nothing. When I have beaten the allies I will take your affair in hand. There are few powers in Europe that will turn a deaf ear to the suggestions of the Emperor of the French, believe me. The lady shall be yours."

"Your Majesty's power," said the young officer dubiously, "does not extend to women's hearts."

"Does it not?" laughed the Emperor grimly. "You shall see. My word shall be law again everywhere. With my favor you will go far. There are no patents of nobility that stand higher than mine, for mine are based on my recognition of merit alone, not on accident of birth. You served me well, and you shall see that I am not ungrateful. Meanwhile, to you a new duty is assigned."

"I welcome it gladly."

Napoleon took an order prepared the night before from a table.

"This to General Nansouty. I want him to march at once. Read it. You will see," he continued, "that Nansouty's cavalry is to hold Sacken in check until I have seized Montmirail. He has guns with him. Let him deploy, attack vigorously. Keep the enemy occupied and gradually fall back upon Montmirail. Ride with him yourself, and rejoin me at Montmirail about ten in the morning. We should be up then. You understand?" said the Emperor, ready to explain his orders more fully, believing that an order could be more intelligently delivered if the purport were explained verbally to the bearer, especially in the case of a skilled and trusted young soldier like Marteau.

"I understand, Sire."

"Away, then. Continue to merit my favor, for upon that favor rests"—he laughed, he was in high good spirits and humor that morning—"the lady."

Marteau saluted. In spite of himself a certain hope began to spring up in his heart. That Emperor was almost a demi-god to his men. Whatever he had essayed he had generally achieved in times past, and who could tell? Certainly they were on the eve of great events.



CHAPTER XIV

THE HAMMER OF THE WAR GOD

Nansouty's brilliant cavalrymen were already awake and their general having divined to some extent the part he was to play in the glorious day, the eleventh of February, the trumpets were already calling his horsemen to arms when Marteau delivered the order and took his place by the General as the Emperor's representative, a high position and great responsibility for so young a soldier. They made a hasty breakfast and broke camp. Indeed, there was little to break. The words are only used figuratively, since they had no tents. In half an hour after Marteau had left the Emperor's headquarters, the squadrons were formed. Nansouty, attended by his staff and the young officer, galloped to the head of the column, gave the word of command and the gallant horsemen trotted down the road.

They had been posted near Fromentieres, about two miles from Champaubert, for the night. The roads were bad, but they took to the fields, and by six o'clock they had passed through the town of Montmirail, easily driving out a few straggling battalions which occupied it. By eight o'clock they were in touch with the columns of Sacken at Vieux Maisons. A bit of woodland covered their approach. It was not until they were almost upon them that Sacken's advance came in touch with them. The French horse followed the Russian outposts and advance guards at a gallop back to the main column, upon which they fell impetuously. Batteries were also deployed in the woods and opened on the Russians.

Sacken's men had started after breakfast in a rather leisurely way, and they had not progressed very far when Nansouty surprised them. The French rode down the advance regiments, threw the heads of the columns into confusion, and then galloped back to the shelter of the wood. Believing that he was about to be attacked in force, Sacken deployed, wasting much valuable time before he discovered this was only a cavalry feint, whereupon he moved forward. It was ten o'clock before he reached a large farm called Haute-Epine. By that time Napoleon was ready for him. He had left Marmont back at Champaubert to hold back Bluecher. He threw Mortier forward on the Chateau-Thierry road to check Yorck. He put Friant, the veteran and splendid fighter, in echelon along the La Ferte road; withdrew Nansouty's cavalry to cover his own right, and put Ney and Ricard in his main battle line between Friant on the road and the river on the left. The guard, with Maurice's cavalry d'elite, he posted on the edge of the woodland, north of Montmirail, ready to throw to the northwestward to Marmont, or to the west to the support of Ney and Friant, as events might determine. These dispositions were barely completed before the battle was joined by the Russian advance.

Sacken, who really outnumbered the forces opposed to him by at least two thousand men, since Mortier's corps, guarding the northwest road, was perforce inactive, and since six thousand men had been left at Champaubert under Marmont to retain Bluecher, attacked with the utmost stubbornness and gallantry. He could make no impression on Friant, echeloned on the main road, and before the resolute resistance his advancing divisions slowly obliqued to the right toward another walled farmhouse, called Epine-aux-Bois, in a stretch of lowland watered by a brook.

Napoleon, seeing the whole course of the battle clearly, laid a trap for him. He withdrew Nansouty from the battle, and ordered Ricard, in command of his extreme left, to retreat slowly, fighting as if defeated. Sacken, as he saw the wavering on his right, threw his heaviest battalions and regiments upon that point, and attacked with headlong impetuosity. At the same time he had enough men left to keep Friant busy and in check. Napoleon, seeing the success of his ruse, suddenly brought up the Guard. He threw it around the right flank of Friant, and Sacken's left immediately began to give way. Ricard stopped his retreat suddenly and stood like a stone wall. His withdrawing Eagles moved forward. The advance of the Russian right stopped also, the Muscovite officers and soldiers were greatly amazed by the sudden resistance of an enemy retreating a moment since. One division of the Guard moved out to the support of Friant, who also advanced. The other division joined Mortier, who was in a hot fight with Yorck's cavalry and light infantry. Napoleon now turned to General Maurice, who had ridden up in advance of his horsemen.

"There"—he pointed down the hill toward the dark masses of the Russian right—"there's your chance, General."

The Comte de Vivonne needed but the word. Turning in his saddle he raised his sword. His cavalry had been waiting with unconcealed impatience during the morning. Eagerly they responded to the command. Dashing down the hill they fell on the puzzled Russian infantry around Epine-aux-Bois. Ricard's men opened to give them way. What had been a triumphant advance was turned into a retreat. The retreat bade fair to be a disaster, but the Russians, as has been noted, were splendid defensive soldiers. They formed squares. Although regiment after regiment had been ridden over and beaten to pieces, those who remained fought stubbornly.

Sacken perceived now that his only hope was to effect a junction with Yorck. He withdrew his men under cover of his artillery to Vieux-Maisons, and began to lead them by the left flank, at the same time sending frantic messages to Yorck, imploring him to hasten. But Yorck's guns were mired. He had only the teams attached to them. He could get no other horses. He was unaccountably delayed. He had faced about at the sound of the firing, but the movements of his main body were slow, deliberate. Nansouty, who had opened the battle, was now sent in by Napoleon to deliver the coup-de-grace. With characteristic gallantry he fell upon the Russian columns.

Sacken was driven from the field. In killed, wounded, and prisoners he had lost half his force and all of his guns. His troops streamed westward through roads and woods in wild confusion. He would have been annihilated then and there but for the arrival of Yorck. The Prussian at last fell on Mortier's weak corps and the Guard on the northern road. Mortier's men were outnumbered four to one. They made a desperate resistance, but it was not until Napoleon ordered up the other division of the Guard, which had only been lightly engaged, and Maurice's cavalry, that Yorck's advance was checked.

The short day had drawn to a close. Preparations were made to pass the night on the field and in the town. All of Sacken's baggage train and provisions had fallen into Napoleon's hands. Montmirail had been a more decisive victory than Champaubert. Twenty thousand men had been eliminated from calculations for the time being. Sending couriers to Macdonald to move down the banks of the Marne with all possible speed, to get in the rear of Yorck, with whom he purposed to deal on the morrow, Napoleon, in high spirits, made preparations for the next day's battle.

The next morning, the thirteenth, leaving a heavy force to check any possible attack by Sacken, who had, with incredible energy and labor, partially at least reorganized his shattered troops, but who was too weak to do anything more than lead them away from any possible touch with Napoleon's troops, the Emperor advanced toward the little village of Chateau-Thierry. Yorck, by this time, had learned the full details of the disaster to Sacken. Indeed, several of Sacken's brigades had joined him, considerably augmenting his force. But he was now no match for Napoleon. To stay meant annihilation. He hastily made his disposition for a rear guard defense and a withdrawal. He made a stubborn rear guard battle of it during the day, and, although he lost heavily in men, guns and supplies, he finally succeeded in crossing the Marne and breaking the bridges behind him.

Macdonald had moved tardily. If he had shown half the enterprise of the Emperor he would have been at the crossing of the Marne in good time and Yorck would have been caught in a trap whence he could not have extricated himself. As it was, Napoleon added largely to the number of prisoners taken and the number of enemies killed. Altogether he had put twenty-five thousand men out of action, in killed, wounded and prisoners. He had taken one hundred and twenty guns—so many that he had to tumble them into the creeks and rivers, because he could not transport them all. He had rearmed and reclothed and provided for his gallant little army at the expense of the enemy. It was an exploit of which even he could be proud. On the other hand, in these operations the French had lost some four thousand men killed and wounded, and, as their army was so small, they could ill afford such a diminution of their forces.

Meantime, Bluecher, apprised of these disasters, and at last awakened to his peril, bravely marched westward. He had come in touch with Marmont, and had driven him out of Champaubert after a desperate resistance. The day after the elimination of Yorck, the fourteenth, Napoleon headed his tired but triumphant troops back over the road to Champaubert, sending word to Marmont to hold the Prussians in check as long as possible, to dispute every rod of the way, but not to throw away his precious men or bring on a general engagement until the Emperor arrived.

The morning after that Napoleon fell on Bluecher, who clearly outnumbered the French. But the allies were dismayed and disheartened. The name of the Emperor whom they had defeated and driven across Europe was again full of terror to them. The French were accordingly elated. They would not be denied. Marmont's men, intoxicated with the news of the success of the other divisions of the army, just as soon as they were given the word, which was just as soon as Napoleon could bring up their comrades, fell on Bluecher like a storm. They came in battle contact in the village of Vauchamps. The fighting was of the most desperate character. The battle was harder than all of the others put together. Bavarians, Prussians, and Russians, fighting under the eye of brave old Bluecher himself, who recklessly exposed his person on the field, were tenacious and courageous to the highest degree, but the tactics and dispositions of Napoleon, the spirit of his men, his own equally reckless exposure of his person under fire, and a cavalry dash at the allied rear at Janvilliers, finally turned the wavering tide of battle. The allies began to retreat, the French followed.

The French pursued relentlessly, but with splendid skill and determination Bluecher himself in command of the rearguard fought them off. Napoleon had foreseen this. He had massed all the cavalry under Grouchy and had sent them on a long round-about march across country to get in Bluecher's rear. Just beyond Champaubert, in a dense wood in front of the village of Etoges, the retreating allies found the road barred by the cavalry. Grouchy had been provided with sufficient artillery to enable him to hold the retreat in check; but the mud still prevailed, many horses had been shot and killed, the peasants' horses drawing the guns had been unable to keep pace with the necessarily rapid movements of the cavalry, and the batteries had not come up. Nor was there any supporting infantry. Indeed, the retreat of the Prussians had been so sudden and so rapid that Grouchy's horse had been hard put to it to intercept them.

The regiments leading the allied retreat were formed in squares, and with musketry and cannon animated with the courage of despair, they forced a passage through the charging, barring masses of the French cavalry, not, however, without losing several of the squares in the process. It was their only possible way to safety. As it was, Bluecher himself narrowly escaped capture.

Napoleon's soldiers had fought five pitched battles in four days. As a preparation, they had marched thirty miles, night and day, over incredible roads. They were now utterly exhausted. They could do no more. They must have a good rest. Bluecher's forces had been scattered, eliminated, defeated in detail. There was now nothing for the Field Marshal to do but to retreat and rally his men. The success of the Emperor had been brilliant in the extreme.

The fighting was not over, however, for thirty miles to the southward lay the vast army of Schwarzenberg. Napoleon might have pursued Bluecher to the bitter end. Military critics say he should have done so. To him, however, on the spot, it seemed proper to leave Bluecher for the time being and endeavor to repeat on Schwarzenberg the marvelous tactics of the five days' fight.

The next morning, the fifteenth, he started back to Nogent whence he had come. Victor and Oudinot had been fighting hard with Schwarzenberg, but the news of Napoleon's victories had finally caused the cautious Austrian to stop. He began the recall and concentration of his own scattered divisions. He, at least, would not be caught napping. As usual the enemy learned something, even in defeat.

Speed was still essential to Napoleon. His men had had twenty-four hours of rest. His horses were comparatively fresh. The weather had changed, the roads were frozen, horribly rough, but still much more passable than before. Once again the Emperor resorted to the peasantry. They, too, had been intoxicated with the news of his victories, many of which they had witnessed and, in the plunder resulting, had shared. They brought their horses which they had hidden in ravines and forests when the country was overrun by the enemy. This time, instead of attaching them to the guns which their own teams—recruited from the captures—could draw on the hard roads, Napoleon had them hitched to the big farm wagons. Into the wagons he loaded his infantry. And at the highest speed of the horses the whole force made its way to the southward. To other victories—to defeats—to what?

The Emperor began once again to dream of an empire whose boundaries would be the Vistula instead of the Rhine.



BOOK II

THE EAGLE'S FLIGHT

CHAPTER XV

THE BRIDGE AT ARCIS

The long journey was at last over. The last Alp had been surmounted, the last pass traversed. Behind them rose the snowy summit of mighty Mont Blanc itself. Before them lay their wearying journey's end. It was cold even in sunny Southern France on that morning in early spring. Marteau, his uniform worn, frayed, travel-stained, and dusty, his close-wrapped precious parcel held to his breast under his shabby great coat, his face pale and haggard from hardship and heartbreak, his body weak and wasted from long illness and long captivity, stood on the top of a ridge of the hill called Mont Rachais, overlooking the walled town of Grenoble, on the right bank of the Isere. The Fifth-of-the-Line had been stationed there before in one of the infrequent periods of peace during the Napoleonic era. He was familiar with the place and he knew exactly where to look for what he expected to see.

More ragged and tattered, more travel-stained indeed, and with only the semblance of a uniform left, was the young lad who stood by the soldier's side. But the boy was in good health and looked strong and sturdy.

"There," said the officer. "You see that square bulk of buildings against the wall beyond the Cathedral church-tower and over the Palais de Justice?"

"I see them, my officer," answered the other, shading his hand and staring over the roofs and walls and spires of the compact little town.

"The barracks will be there unless the regiment has moved. That will be the end of our journey."

"The building with the flag, you mean, monsieur?" asked Pierre.

"That one."

Alas! the flag was no longer the tricolor but the white flag of ancient royal France. Marteau heaved a deep sigh as he stared at it with sad eyes and sadder face.

The unexpected, that is, from the young soldier's point of view, had happened. The empire was no more. The allies had triumphed. The Emperor has been beaten. He had abdicated and gone. He was practically a prisoner on the little island of Elba, adjacent to that greater island of Corsica, where he had been born. The great circle of his life had been completed. And all the achievements were to be comprehended between those two little islands in the blue Mediterranean—from Corsica to Elba, the phrase ran. Was that all?

Much water had flowed under the bridges of Europe since that mad ride of the infantry in the farm wagons to face Schwarzenberg after their smashing and successful attacks upon Bluecher, although the intervening time had been short. A year had scarcely elapsed, but that twelve months had been crowded with incident, excitement, and vivid interest almost unparalleled by any similar period in modern history. The Emperor had, indeed, fought hard for his throne and against heavy odds. He had fought against indifference, against carelessness, against negligence, last of all against treachery. For in the end it was treachery that had undone him and France. Still, it may be that even had Marmont and Mortier remained loyal the end would have been the same.

The odds were too heavy, in fine. The Emperor did not realize their preponderance until it was too late. If he had assembled every soldier, abandoning everything else but the defense of France, and if he had shown with such an army as he could have gathered under those conditions the same spirit of generalship which he had exhibited in that marvelous campaign against Bluecher, he might have saved France, his throne, his wife, his little son, his prestige, everything. As it was, he lost all. But not without fighting. Stubborn, determined, magnificently defiant he had been to the last.

Marteau had often thrilled to the recollection during the long hours he spent in captivity in Austria, and even in the delirium and fever of his long and wasting illness, begot of the foul prison, he had remembered it. In all the hard fighting and hard marching of those mournful if splendid days the young man had faithfully and well borne his important if humble part. There was a great dearth of officers, staff officers as well as the others. He had been very near to the Emperor during those last days.

He remembered the smashing attack upon the van of the allies at Montereau. He could feel once more the thrill of the army, as the circumspect Schwarzenberg stopped his advance, retired, concentrated his columns. He remembered the long, swift march back across the country, after further demonstrations to keep Schwarzenberg in his cautious mood, against the rear of the reorganized and advancing army of Bluecher; the desperate, bloody, fruitless battles of Laon and Craonne, rendered necessary by treachery.

He could recall again the furious rage of Napoleon, the almost despair that filled the Emperor's heart, when the news came of the cowardly surrender of the fort at Soissons by its incapable commandant, which rendered useless Napoleon's cunning plans, and all the hard marching and harder fighting of his heroic soldiery.

He recalled the escape of hard-pressed Bluecher again, the return of the French to face the overwhelming main army of the allies, slowly but surely moving toward its goal whenever the withdrawal of the Emperor left it free to advance, the detachment of Marmont and Mortier to defend Paris, the fierce two-day battle at Arcis-sur-Aube, the dash of Maurice's and Sebastiani's gallant cavalry upon the whole Austrian army, the deadly conflict before the bridge, the picture of the retreat that bade fair to become a rout.

He could see again the Emperor, riding down, sword in hand, into the midst of the fugitives crossing the bridge, and, amid a storm of bullets, ordering and beseeching and imploring the men to rally. He had been there on that mad March morning. He would never forget the sight of that figure, the words the Emperor said. It reminded him of the dash of the "little corporal" with the flag on the bridge of Lodi, of which old Bullet-Stopper had often told him and the other young men over the camp-fires.

The Fifth-of-the-Line had immortalized itself that day, adding to the fame it had gained upon a hundred fields, an imperishable crown. Napoleon saw that the battle was lost, that the whole Austrian army had blundered upon that first French division and that, unless their steady advance could be checked, the division itself would be cut to pieces. Men had grown more precious to the Emperor every hour. What would he not have given for those he had spent so recklessly years before? And here was a whole division about to be annihilated, to say nothing of the cavalry, which had performed prodigies of valor.

"What regiment is that?" he had asked Marteau, who was riding at his heels in the midst of the fugitives, and doing his best to second the Emperor's frantic efforts to restore order and bring the men to a stand.

"The Fifth-of-the-Line, Sire."

"Your old regiment?"

"The same, Sire."

"It still stands."

"And it will stand."

"Good! Go to it. Tell them that I, the Emperor, devote them to death, for me and for the army. They must hold the Austrians in check and cover the retreat."

"Farewell, Sire," the young soldier had said, saluting.

"What mean you?"

"I shall not come back with the remainder."

"Adieu," said the Emperor, acknowledging the salute and understanding all.

How well Marteau remembered that frightful conflict. The Fifth-of-the-Line had not waited to be attacked. It had gone forward. The Colonel had been shot down. Officer after officer had fallen. The advancing line had wavered, hesitated, halted. The Eagle-bearer fell. Eager hands caught the staff. The Austrian fire was concentrated upon it. The color guard was shot to pieces. The Eagle itself had the tip of its right wing shot away. Mortal men could do no more. The regiment began to give back.

It was Marteau who sprang to the front, he and young Pierre, who had attached himself to the officer in a sort of unofficial way. It was Marteau who seized the Eagle; it was he who rallied the line. The new men formed up like veterans, the old men settled in their places, cool and ready. They returned the Austrian fire, they checked the Austrian advance, they stood ready while the troops behind them ran for their lives. Napoleon, whose eye nothing escaped, saw it all. He even recognized Marteau carrying the Eagle.

The Fifth-of-the-Line made good that defense until the time came for the retreat. Then it retired slowly, fighting every step of the way down the low hill to the bridge. The men dropped by scores. The Austrians, seeing victory in reach, pressed closer. A charge at the last minute by the cuirassiers of the Emperor Francis' guard almost completed the annihilation of the first battalion of the regiment. The survivors sought to form a square, under a withering gun fire, to meet the uplifted sabers of the heavy cavalry. There were not enough of them left. They were ridden down. Two hundred and fifty of the four hundred who went into that fight lay dead on that field. Of the survivors scarce a handful got across the river. Some of the unhurt men, disdaining quarter and unable to fly, fought until they fell. The wounded, of whom there were many, were all captured out of hand.

Marteau, with the Eagle, had stood nearest the enemy. They had swarmed about him at last. He found himself alone, save for the boy, Pierre. He could see the red-faced, excited, shouting, yelling, passion-animated Austrian soldiers crowding upon him. His sword was broken, his pistols empty and gone. He was defenseless. Retreat was cut off. The Eagle staff had been shot away. The flag torn to pieces. Hands were stretched out to seize it. He could not escape with it, yet it must not fall to the enemy. It was the tradition of the service that the Eagles were to be preserved at all hazards—not the flag, that was a mere perishable adjunct to the Eagle, but the Eagle itself. The river ran but a few feet away. Thrusting aside the nearest Austrian with the stump of his blade, Marteau cleared a path for a second, and into the swift deep waters he hurled the sacred emblem.

He, at least, he thought swiftly, had a right to dispose of it thus, for out of the waters of the Elster he had brought it, so into the waters of the Aube he threw it.

With cries of rage, for the Eagle was the most precious spoil of war, and the regiment or the officer seizing it was distinguished above all others, the Austrians would have cut him down where he stood with arms crossed, facing the enemy, but officers who had ridden up had seen the exploit and had interfered. He had been made a prisoner and Pierre with him. He just had time to whisper to the boy to mark well the spot where the Eagle had disappeared in the waters before they marched away.

While under guard with other prisoners at Salzburg he had heard the story of the end. How Napoleon, trusting the defense of Paris to Marmont and Mortier, had resolved on the bold move of cutting the communications of the allies with his little army, and how the allies had decided to disregard their rear and march on Paris; how Marmont and Mortier had battled for the capital, how the Emperor, hearing of their straits, had begun that mad march toward his beloved city; how he had ordered every soldier that could be reached to march in that direction; how he had stopped at a wayside inn one night for a few hours' rest, after a furious day's ride, only to be told that Marmont and Mortier had gone over to the enemy, that Paris was lost!

The prisoners had learned how the Emperor, not yet despairing, had striven to quicken the spirits of his marshals and soldiers for a last try; how the marshals and great officers had failed him. They had all heard of those lonely hours at Fontainebleau, of the farewell to the Guard, of the kiss on the Eagle, which he surrendered to General Petit, of the abdication, of the exile to Elba, of the restoration of King Louis.

It had made Marteau ill, frightfully so, and but for the tender nursing and loving care of young Pierre he had died. The lad had been devotion itself, but Marteau missed more than anything else the companionship, the sage advice, the bon camaraderie of old Bullet-Stopper. He had never seen him or heard from him after that day at the bridge-head at Arcis. Where was he now?

Oh, yes, those days and their tidings would never be forgot. They all came back to the young officer, as with his humble but devoted companion he stood there on the heights above Grenoble looking at the white flag.



CHAPTER XVI

THE GATE IN THE WALL

The two travelers were stopped by the guard at the main gate in the walls that encircled the town. Marteau had drawn his old cloak closely about him, so that it was not evident that he was in uniform. Pierre's nondescript garments were so tattered and torn that neither would they betray the pair. The sentry was clad in the old uniform of the Fifth-of-the-Line, except that he sported a white cockade in his head-gear and every device that referred to the Empire had been carefully eliminated. Still he was the same soldier, and Marteau recognized him at once as one of the veterans of the regiment. The recognition was not mutual. Captivity, illness, privation had wrought many changes in the officer's face. The man looked at him curiously and wonderingly, however, as he challenged him.

"My friend," asked the officer, "of what regiment are you, I pray?"

"The Fifth-of-the——" began the man instinctively, apparently, and then he stopped. "The regiment Dauphine," he answered, his face clouding.

"And what battalion?"

"The first, sir."

"Are there other troops in garrison?"

"Another regiment of infantry, that was the Seventh. I don't know its new name. And some artillery to man the walls."

"Good. I should like—— Who is in command of the town?"

"There is a new one since yesterday. He has just come down from Paris, the King sent——"

At that instant the gruff voice of the subaltern in command of the detachment at the gate rang out.

"Turn out the guard for the Commanding Officer."

"Back, monsieur," cried the soldier, falling into line with his comrades, who came running from the guard-house and ranged themselves in order.

Marteau stepped back into the shadow of the gate, just as a carriage and four, carrying three people and attended by a brilliant cavalry escort, dashed through the narrow street of the town and passed out of the gate, the soldiers of the guard standing at attention in line and presenting arms as the carriage and its following went on into the country by the highroad. The horses had been moving at a fast trot. Marteau had time for but one glance as the vehicle passed. One glance was enough. When the guard had been dismissed and the soldier on post turned again to look at the officer, he was astonished at the change that had come over him. Marteau, pale as death, leaned against the wall, his hand on his heart.

"What's the matter?" cried the soldier, staring at him curiously.

"Has monsieur seen a ghost?" asked young Pierre, running toward him in great anxiety.

"Who—who was that?" asked Marteau, who had received a dreadful shock apparently.

"The governor of the town."

"Yes, yes, I know, but his name?"

"I was about to tell you. The Marquis de—— Upon my word, I have forgot it."

"Was it by any chance the Marquis d'Aumenier?"

"That's it," said the soldier.

"And the man with him in the red coat?"

The soldier spat into the dust to show his contempt.

"An English milord."

"And the lady?"

"I don't know. They say, the wife of that Englishman. Things have come to a pretty pass," growled the soldier, turning away, "when our girls marry these English beef-eaters, and—— It was not so in the day of the Em——"

He stopped suddenly, wondering fearfully whether his garrulousness had betrayed him into an imprudence with this stranger.

"No," said Marteau reassuringly. "Will you let me pass, comrade? I am an old soldier of—the Empire." He had no hesitation in avowing himself under the circumstances. "See," he threw open his cloak, disclosing his uniform.

"Why, that is the uniform of this regiment!" exclaimed the amazed soldier.

"Yes."

"And you are——"

"I was Captain Marteau when with the regiment," returned the officer.

"I thought I knew you, sir. Yes, I remember it all now. You were cut down at the bridge at Arcis."

"Yes."

"I, too, was there. I was one of the few who managed to get away alive. But I did not run, monsieur. I did not go back until the order."

"I believe it."

"And this boy?"

"He is a young comrade, a faithful companion of my own."

"And you are come back——"

"To rejoin the regiment. I have been months in an Austrian prison, and afterward, ill."

"Pass freely, monsieur. You rallied us with the Eagle. We saw it go into the river. The Emperor himself commended us, those who were left. He said we should have another Eagle, but alas, we never got it."

"Have patience," said Marteau. "What is lost may be found."

He touched the small, well-wrapped parcel, which even in his agitation he had not allowed to fall to the ground. The soldier looked at him wonderingly.

"You mean——"

"Never mind. Be silent. Will you call your officer?"

"Corporal of the guard," shouted the sentry, and, when that official appeared, the lieutenant in command of the gate was soon summoned through the usual military channels.

"Monsieur," said Marteau, walking up to him, "do you not know me?"

"By heaven!" cried the officer, after a long stare, "is it—it is Captain Marteau!"

"The same."

"We thought you dead. Your name is honored in the regiment. We knew how you rallied the line; how you took the Eagle; how you threw it into the river rather than permit it to be taken. We thought you were killed."

"My life was spared," was the solemn answer.

"But why did you not rejoin the regiment?"

"I was in prison at Salzburg, and for some reason was overlooked, perhaps because it was thought I was dead, and then for some months I was helpless, ill of a horrible fever. It was only two months ago that I was set free, with this lad here, who stood beside me before the bridge at Arcis. We learned through unofficial sources that the regiment was here. Having nowhere else to go, I came back, and——"

"They will be glad to see you," said the officer. "The regiment lost heavily. It was almost cut to pieces at Arcis."

"I know."

"But many officers and men of the old regiment have come back, like you, from Russia, from Prussia and from Austria, where they had been held prisoners. They will be glad to welcome you at the barracks yonder. You are permitted to pass. But stop. I must do my duty. What have you in that parcel?"

Marteau looked about him, moved a step away from the sentries and the corporal and sergeant of the guard, and whispered a word into the ear of the officer. He threw up his hands in astonishment.

"Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed. "Is it possible?"

"The same," said Marteau, "but say nothing about it until I have seen our comrades."

"Of course not."

"And that carriage and four that just passed?"

"The governor of the town, the Marquis d'Aumenier, the new commander of the regiment."

"I see; and our old Colonel?"

"Dead. The Major commanding the first battalion has been in command until they sent this old noble down here yesterday."

"And the lady?"

"His niece."

"You have met her?"

"Not I. They care nothing for such as we. He treats us as if we were of the scum of the earth, dogs. Oh, if only——"

"Hush," said Marteau. "It is dangerous."

"I know. And he brought with him an Englishman, one of the Duke of Wellington's officers."

"Is he married to the young lady?"

"Not yet, I believe, but betrothed."

"And his name?"

"He has a barbarous name. I can't pronounce it. He had us out inspecting us yesterday—he and that Englishman. Bah! To think of the Fifth-of-the-Line being inspected by such a young red-coated cockerel."

The veteran spat in the dust as the soldier had done and swore roundly. He hated the red-coated English. He had fought them before, and he would like nothing better than to fight them again.

"Patience," said Marteau.

"Do you wish to go to headquarters and report yourself? You were a Major on the Emperor's staff?"

"A Lieutenant-Colonel, by personal appointment that day at Arcis."

"Well, you will be lucky enough if they make you a subaltern. Look at me. I am older than you. I am a veteran of Italy and I am only a sub-lieutenant, I, who was Captain when I was captured."

"Patience, my friend," said Marteau again.

"Here," said the officer, hailing a cabriolet, which suddenly turned the corner.

"I have no money," said Marteau quickly.

"The King pays ill enough," answered the officer, "but what I have is ever at the service of a good comrade."

He assisted Marteau into the cabriolet, allowed Pierre to climb up beside him, paid the driver his fare, and bade him take the two to the headquarters in the barracks.



CHAPTER XVII

A VETERAN OF THE ARMY OF ITALY

It was noon when Marteau presented himself before the house in which the Major of the first battalion, an old veteran named Lestoype, was quartered.

"Who shall I say wants to see him?" asked the orderly before the door.

"A soldier of the Empire," was the bold answer, and it proved an open sesame to the astonished orderly.

Lestoype was writing at a table, but he looked up when Marteau came in. He stared at him a moment and then rose to his feet.

"I report myself ready for duty, Major," said the young officer, saluting.

"Good God, is it Marteau!" exclaimed the Major.

"The same."

"We thought you dead."

Rapidly the young officer explained the situation.

"You see," he said in closing, "I survived the Eagle."

"Ah, if we could only have got it back!" exclaimed the Major.

"It is back."

"What do you mean?"

"It is here."

"I don't understand."

"Look," cried the officer, nervously tearing away the wrappings and holding up his precious burden.

The Major came to attention, his heels clicked together, his hand went up. He stared at the Eagle.

"Vive l'Empereur," he said.

"Vive l'Empereur," answered the other, but both of them spoke in whispers, for there was no Emperor, and a mention of the name was treason to the King.

"It is the same?" asked the Major, taking the precious emblem in his hand and pressing it to his heart.

"The very same."

"But how?"

"The boy here and I marked the spot where it fell. We took bearings, as a sailor would say; we took them independently, and when we had a chance to compare them we found that we agreed exactly. When I was released from prison and discharged from the hospital as a convalescent, we went back to Arcis, to the bridge, to the river side. The boy here is an expert swimmer. The river was low. He dove into the icy waters again and again until he found it. We were most circumspect in our movements. No one observed us. I wrapped it up, concealed it carefully, learned that the regiment was here, and I surrender it into your hands."

"It is a shame," began Lestoype gloomily at last, laying the Eagle gently down on his desk.

"What is a shame?"

"The order."

"What order?"

"The Eagles of all the regiments and ships are to be sent to Paris to be destroyed."

"Impossible!"

"Nevertheless, it is true. They have taken them wherever they could lay hands on them. It has almost caused a revolt."

"And are you going to send this Eagle to Paris?" asked Marteau threateningly. "This Eagle for which I fought, this Eagle which I rescued from the Elster and the Aube, for which hundreds of brave men have died, this Eagle which has been in the forefront of every battle in which the regiment took part since the Emperor gave it into our keeping before Ulm?"

"What can I do?"

"I will throw it into the Isere first. I will destroy it myself before that happens," cried Marteau, snatching it up and pressing it to his heart. "I have taken no oaths. I am still the Emperor's man."

"Not so loud," said Lestoype warningly. "The men of the regiment may not all be true. You may be overheard."

"You and all the others have taken the oath of allegiance to the King?"

"What else was there to do? Soldiering is my trade. They offered us commissions; the Empire was dead; the Emperor banished. It was a living, at any rate."

"But I am free, I am not bound."

"You must, you will take the oath," urged Lestoype.

"How if he should come back?"

"He will not come back."

"Will he not? It is whispered everywhere," said Marteau. "I have not passed an old soldier who did not voice the hope. It's in the air. 'When the violets bloom,' they say. Even the peasants whisper it. The imperial purple flower—— He will return."

"God grant it may be so."

"And we shall be ready for him, we who have not taken the oath, and who——"

"I am afraid I shall be a forsworn man, in that case," said the veteran, smiling grimly. "Should the Emperor again set foot in France his presence would absolve us from all vows. I only serve under the King's colors because no others fly in France."

"Be it so."

"And you will be with us again in the regiment?"

"How can I?"

"Be advised," said the old soldier, laying his hand upon the arm of the younger, "we must keep together. We must keep our regimental organizations intact. The army must be ready for him. Take the oath as well nigh every soldier high and low in France has done, and——"

"Well, I shall see. Meanwhile, the Eagle there. You won't give it up?"

"Give it up!" laughed Lestoype. "I feel just as you do about it, but we must conceal it. The Seventh, Labedoyere's regiment, in garrison here, concealed their Eagle. At least it has not been found. There was a terrible to do about it."

"Do you vouch for the officer at the main gate? I had to tell him in order to be passed. I know him but slightly."

"The Sub-Lieutenant Drehon."

"He is safe?"

"Beyond doubt. Meanwhile, you require——"

"Everything," said Marteau simply.

"The King's paymasters are a long time in coming. We are left to make shift as best we can. But I am not yet penniless," returned the old Major. He threw a purse on the table. "You will be my guest. With these you can get proper clothes and uniform."

"And the boy?"

"I will turn him over to the men. They will be glad to welcome him. He should have the Legion of Honor for rescuing the Eagle. But stop."

"What is it?"

"He won't talk?"

"I have tested that lad. He will be as close-mouthed as the grave. You understand, Pierre, you are not to say a word about the Eagle until I give you leave," said Marteau to his young comrade. "About our other adventures you can tell."

"I understand. Monsieur knows that I can be silent."

"I know. Good-by. I shall see you to-morrow. Now," began Marteau, as the orderly who had been summoned had taken Pierre away with instructions to see that he was clothed and fed, "let me ask some questions. Who was in command of the regiment?"

"I was until yesterday."

"And yesterday?"

"The King sent down an old officer to take the command, a Lieutenant-Colonel."

"And the Colonel?"

"Monsieur d'Artois."

"So that——"

"The Lieutenant-Colonel commands the regiment, which is now known as the Regiment Dauphine, the Comte d'Artois' own," said the Major, with fine scorn. "What a name to take the place of the Fifth-of-the-Line," he added.

"And Monsieur d'Aumenier?"

"Oh, he seems harmless enough. He is a trained soldier, too, of royalist days before the Empire. He even told me he had been at the school at Brienne when the Emperor was a student there."

"And who is with him?"

"His niece, the Countess Laure d'Aumenier, engaged to that young English officer."

"And what of him?"

"Well enough for an Englishman, I suppose," was the careless answer. "We were paraded yesterday and the young Englishman inspected us, the lady looking on. Actually my gorge rose, as he handled our muskets, criticized our drill. I heard some of the old mustaches of the regiment say they would like to put a bayonet through him, and, to be frank, I should like it myself. I fought against these English in Spain. There's no love lost between us."

"Did he disparage the regiment?"

"Oh, no, quite the contrary. He was more than complimentary, but I hate them. His father is here, too."

"I see. When is the marriage to take place?"

"How do I know? I was surprised when the old Marquis volunteered any information to the likes of me."

"I must see the Marquis at once; with your permission, of course."

"You have it," returned the other, smiling. "You are not yet reinstated in the regiment, and, so far as I am concerned, you are free to go and come as you will."

"He is not here now, I believe?"

"No. He turned over the command to me temporarily. He is driving out into the country, going out to the gap to reconnoiter for himself, I take it, but he will be back before nightfall, and meanwhile you have much to do. We want to get you well fed, to get some good French wine into you, to put the blood into your veins and color into your cheeks, to give you a bath, to get you clothing—everything," said the generous old veteran.



CHAPTER XVIII

ALMOST A GENTLEMAN

"Will you tell the Lieutenant-Colonel, the Marquis d'Aumenier, that an officer returned from the wars desires to see him?" said Marteau to the footman who answered the door at the Governor's palace.

"So many wandering officers want to see His Excellency," said the servant superciliously, "that I have instructions to require further enlightenment before I admit any to his presence."

"Say to your master," replied the other, his face flushing at the insolence of the servant, "that one from the village of Aumenier craves an audience on matters of great importance."

"And even that will scarcely be sufficient," began the lackey.

"Enough!" thundered Marteau. "Carry my message to him instantly," he said fiercely, "or I shall throw you aside and carry it myself."

The servant looked at him a moment, and not relishing what he saw, turned on his heel and disappeared.

"His Excellency will see you, sir," he said, in a manner considerably more respectful when he returned a few moments later. "This way, sir. His Excellency is in the drawing-room, having finished his dinner. What name shall I announce?" he asked, his hand on the door.

"Announce no one," was the curt reply. "Open the door. I will make myself known."

The lackey threw open the door. Marteau entered the room and closed the door behind him. The drawing-room of the Governor's palace was brilliantly illuminated. The Governor was receiving the officers of the garrison and the principal inhabitants of the city that night, but it was yet early in the evening, and none of them had arrived. The young officer had purposely planned his visit at that hour, in order that he might have a few moments' conversation with the Marquis before the invited guests arrived.

There were five people gathered about the fireplace, all engrossed in pleasant conversation apparently. It was the second of March, and the weather made the fire blazing on the hearth very welcome. Four of the five people in the room were men; the fifth person was a woman. It was she whose attention was first aroused by the sound of the closing of the door. She faced about, her glance fell upon the newcomer, a cup which she held in her hand fell to the floor, the precious china splintering into a thousand fragments, her face turned as white as the lace of her low evening gown.

"Marteau!" she exclaimed in almost an agonized whisper.

"Mademoiselle," answered the soldier, bowing profoundly.

He was beautifully dressed in the nearest approach to the latest fashion that the best tailor in Grenoble could offer—thanks to the Major's purse—and, although his most becoming attire was not a uniform, his every movement betrayed the soldier, as his every look bespoke the man.

"And who have we here?" asked the oldest man of the group, the Marquis d'Aumenier himself, the attention of all being attracted to the newcomer by the crash of the broken china and the low exclamation of the young woman which none had made out clearly.

"By gad!" bellowed out with tremendous voice a stout old man, whose red face and heavy body contrasted surprisingly with the pale face, the lean, thin figure of the old Marquis, "I am damned if it isn't the young Frenchman that held the chateau with us. Lad," he cried, stepping forward and stretching out his hand, "I am glad to see you alive. I asked after you, as soon as I came back to France, but they told me you were dead."

"On the contrary, as you see, sir, I am very much alive, and at Sir Gervaise Yeovil's service as always," said Marteau, meeting the Englishman's hand with his own, touched by the other's hearty greeting, whose genuineness no one could doubt. "And this gentleman?" he went on, turning to a young replica of the older man, who had stepped to his father's side.

"Is my son, Captain Frank Yeovil, of King George's Fifty-second Light Infantry. By gad, I am glad to have him make your acquaintance. He is going to marry the Marquis' niece here—your old friend—when they can settle on a day. You had thoughts in that direction yourself, I remember," he went on, in his bluff way, "but I suppose you have got bravely over them by now," he laughed.

"I have resigned myself to the inevitable, monsieur," answered Marteau with a calmness that he did not feel.

He did not dare to look at the Countess Laure as he spoke. He could not have commanded himself if he had done so. His lips were compressed and his face was paler than before. The girl saw it. She had watched him, fascinated. The Englishman, young, frank, sunny-haired, gallant, stepped up to him, shook him by his unwilling hand.

"I am glad to know you," he said. "I have heard how you saved my betrothed's life and honor, and held the chateau. I have longed to meet you, to thank you."

"And I you," said Marteau. "You English are frank. I shall be likewise," he added. "It was not thus I wanted to meet you, monsieur, not in a drawing-room, in this peaceful dress, but—on the field."

"I understand," said the Englishman, sobered a little by the other's seriousness. "And if the war had continued perhaps we might have settled the—er"—his eyes sought those of his fiancee, but she was not looking at him—"our differences," he added, "in the old knightly way, but now——"

"Now it is impossible," assented Marteau, "since my Emperor and I are both defeated."

"Monsieur," broke in the high, rather sharp voice of the old Marquis, "that is a title which is no longer current in France. As loyal subjects of, the King the word is banished—like the man."

"I am but new to France, Monsieur le Marquis, and have not yet learned to avoid the ancient habit."

"And yet you are a Frenchman," commented the Marquis dryly. "You said you came from Aumenier. I did not catch your name, sir?"

"Marteau, at your service."

"One of the loyal Marteaux?"

"The last one, sir."

"And pray why are you new to France?"

"I have but two months since been released from an Austrian prison and an Austrian hospital."

"I made inquiry," said the Countess suddenly, the tones of her voice bespeaking her deep agitation, "I caused the records to be searched. They said you were dead, that you had been killed at the bridge of Arcis with the rest of your regiment."

"I was unfortunate enough to survive my comrades as you see, mademoiselle," said Marteau.

"And I thank God for that," said the Countess Laure. "I have never forgot what you did for me, and——"

"Nor has the memory of your interposition which twice saved my life escaped from my mind for a single instant, mademoiselle."

"Yes, it was very fine, no doubt, on the part of both of you," said Captain Yeovil, a little impatiently, because he did not quite see the cause of all this perturbation on the part of his betrothed; "but you are quits now, and for my part——"

"What I did for mademoiselle is nothing, monsieur. I shall always be in her debt," replied the Frenchman.

"Monsieur St. Laurent," said the Marquis, turning to the other occupant of the room, "my new adjutant, Monsieur Marteau," he added in explanation, "was there not a Marteau borne on the rolls of the regiment? I think I saw the name when I looked yesterday, and it attracted me because I knew it."

"Yes, your Excellency," said St. Laurent, "he was a Captain when he was detached."

"You were on service elsewhere, Monsieur mon Capitaine?" asked the Marquis.

"I was a Lieutenant-Colonel, your Excellency."

"And where and when?"

"On the day at Arcis. Made so by"—he threw up his head—"by him who cannot be named."

"Ah! Quite so," said the Marquis, helping himself to a pinch of snuff from a jeweled box, quite after the fashion of the old regime. He shut the box and tapped it gently. "There is, I believe, a vacancy in the regiment, a Captaincy. My gracious King, whom God and the saints preserve, leaves the appointment to me. It is at your service. I regret that I can offer you no higher rank. I shall be glad to have you in my command," he went on. "It is meet and right that you should be there. I and my house have been well served for generations by your house."

"I regret that I cannot accept your offer."

"Why not?" asked the Marquis haughtily. "It is not to every wandering officer that I would have made it."

"I should have to swear allegiance to your King, monsieur, and that I——"

"Enough," said the Marquis imperiously. "The offer is withdrawn. You may go, sir."

"I have a duty to discharge before I avail myself of your courteous permission," said the young man firmly.

"My uncle," said the girl, "you cannot dismiss Monsieur Jean Marteau in that cavalier fashion. It is due to him that I am here."

"No, curse me, Marquis," burst out Sir Gervaise, wagging his big head at the tall, French noble, "you don't know how much you owe to that young man. Why, even I would not have been here but for him."

"I am deeply sensible to the obligations under which he has laid me, both through the Comtesse Laure, and through you, old friend. I have just endeavored to discharge them. If there be any other way—— Monsieur is recently from prison—perhaps the state of his finances—if he would permit me——" continued the Marquis, who was not without generous impulses, it seemed.

"Sir," interrupted Marteau, "I thank you, but I came here to confer, not to receive, benefits."

"To confer, monsieur?"

"We Marteaux have been accustomed to render service, as the Marquis will recollect," he said proudly.

He drew forth a soiled, worn packet of papers. Because they had represented nothing of value to his captors they had not been taken. They had never left his person except during his long period of illness, when they had been preserved by a faithful official of the hospital and returned to him afterward.

"Allow me to return these to the Marquis," he said, tendering them.

"And what are these?" asked the old man.

"The title deeds to the Aumenier estates, monsieur."

"The grant is waste paper," said the Marquis contemptuously.

"Not so," was the quick answer. "I have learned that the acts of the late—of—those which were duly and properly registered before the—present king ascended the throne are valid. The estates are legally mine. You reject them. I——" he hesitated, he stepped over to the young woman—"I return them to you, mademoiselle. Her dowry, monsieur," he added, facing the Englishman, as he laid the packet down on the table by the side of the Countess Laure.

"Well, that's handsome of you," said the latter heartily.

"I cannot take them," ejaculated the young woman, just a touch of contempt for her obtuse English lover in her voice. "I—— They are legally his. We shall have no need——"

"Nonsense," burst out the young English officer. "They are rightfully yours. They were taken from you by an usurper who——"

"Monsieur!" cried Marteau sharply.

"Well, sir?"

"He who cannot be named by order of the king is not to be slandered by order of——"

"Whose order?"

"Mine," said Marteau.

"Indeed," answered the Englishman, his face flushing as he laid his hand on his sword—he was wearing his uniform.

"Steady, steady," cried the old Baronet, interposing between the two. "The lad's right. If we can't name Bonaparte, it is only fair that we shouldn't abuse him. And the girl's right, too. You have no need of any such dowry. Thank God I have got acres and pounds of my own for the two of you and all that may come after."

"It strikes me, gentlemen," said the Marquis coolly, "that the disposal of the affair is mine. Marteau is right and I was wrong. Perhaps he has some claim to the estate. But, however that may be, he does well to surrender it to its ancient overlord. I accept it as my due. I shall see that he does not suffer for his generosity."

"And does monsieur think that he could compensate me if he should give me the whole of France for the loss of——"

"Good God!" said the keen witted, keen eyed old Marquis, seeing Marteau's glance toward the young woman. "Are you still presuming to——"

"As man looks toward the sun that gives him life," said the young Frenchman, "so I look toward mademoiselle. But have no fear, monsieur," he went on to the English dragoon, "you have won her heart. I envy you but——"

"Marteau!" protested the Countess, the anguish in her soul speaking in her voice again.

How different the appearance of this slender, pale, delicate young Frenchman from the coarser-grained English soldier to whom she had plighted her troth, but to whom she had not given her heart. There was no doubt in her mind as to where her affections pointed. Some of the pride of race, of high birth and ancient lineage, had been blown away in the dust of the revolution. She had played too long with the plain people on the ancient estate. She had been left too much to herself. She had seen Marteau in splendid and heroic roles. She saw him so now. She had been his companion and associate in her youth. But of all this none knew, and she was fain not to admit it even to herself.

"Have you anything more to communicate, Marteau, or to surrender?" asked the Marquis coldly.

To do him justice, any service Marteau might render him was quite in accord with the old noble's idea of what was proper and with the ancient feudal custom by which the one family had served the other for so long.

"I have yet something else to give up."

"Another estate?"

"A title."

"Ah, and what title, pray, and what interest have I in it?" asked the Marquis sarcastically.

"I have here," said the young Frenchman, drawing forth another legal document, "a patent of nobility duly signed and attested. It was delivered to me by special courier the day after the battle of Montereau."

"And you were created what, sir?"

"Count d'Aumenier, at your service, monsieur."

"Is this an insult?" exclaimed the Marquis, his pale face reddening.

"Sir," said the young man proudly, "it was given me by a man who has made more men noble, and established them, than all the kings of France before him. No power on earth could better make me Count or Prince or King, even."

"Sir! Sir!" protested the Marquis furiously.

"I value this gift but I do not need it now. I surrender it into your hands. You may destroy it. I shall formally and before a notary renounce it. It shall be as if it had not been."

The Marquis took the paper, unfolded it deliberately amid a breathless silence and glanced rapidly over it.

"Even so," he admitted.

He looked up at the gallant, magnanimous young Frenchman with more interest and more care than before; he noticed how pale and haggard and weak he appeared. He appreciated it for the first time. A little change came over the hard, stern face of the old noble. He, too, had suffered; he, too, had been hungry and weak and weary; he, too, had eaten his heart out longing for what seemed impossible. After all, they had been friends and more than friends, these ancient houses, the high born and the peasant born, for many generations.

"St. Laurent," he said sharply, "we have been remiss. Monsieur is ill, a chair for him. Laure, a glass of wine."

Indeed, the constraint that Marteau had put upon himself had drawn heavily upon his scanty reserve of nervous force. St. Laurent did not like the task, but there was that in the Marquis's voice which warned him not to hesitate. He offered a chair, into which the young man sank. From a decanter on the table the girl, her hand trembling, poured out a glass of wine. Swiftly she approached him, she bent over him, moved by a sudden impulse, she sank on her knees by his side and tendered him the glass.

"On your knees, Laure!" protested the young Englishman. "It is not meet that——"

"In gratitude to a man who has served me well and who has set us all a noble example of renunciation by his surrender of land and title here in this very room."

"Rise, mademoiselle," said Marteau, taking the glass from her still trembling hand. "The honor is too great for me. I cannot remain seated unless——"

"Very pretty," said the Marquis coolly as young Captain Yeovil helped his reluctant young betrothed to her feet. "Your health, monsieur," he continued, taking up his own glass. "By all the saints, sir," he added as he drained his glass, "you have acted quite like a gentleman."

"'Quite,' my uncle?" quoted the young woman with deep emphasis on the word.

"Well, what more could I say to a Marteau?"

"What more indeed," said the young officer, smiling in proud disdain.

"Damme if I wouldn't have left the 'quite' out," muttered the elder Yeovil.

"I have your leave to withdraw now, monsieur?" asked the young officer. "You dismissed me a moment since."

"Now I ask you to stay. By the cross of St. Louis," said the old Marquis, fingering his order, "I am proud of you, young man. Take the commission. I should like them to see what sort of men we breed in Champagne and——"

"I feel I shall be unequal to it. I must withdraw."

"Where are you staying?" asked the young woman eagerly.

"With Major Lestoype, an old comrade."

"And I shall see you once more?"

"I cannot hope to see mademoiselle again. Our ways lie apart."

"Enough," said the Countess imperiously. "It rests with me and I will see you again. Meanwhile, au revoir."

She offered her hand to the young Frenchman. He seized it eagerly.

"Monsieur allows the privilege to an old and faithful servitor?" he said to the young Englishman, who stood jealously looking on, and then, not waiting for an answer, he bent low and pressed his lips upon it.

Did that hand tremble in his own? Was there an upward movement as if to press it against his lips? He could not tell. He did not dare to speculate. The Countess closed her eyes and when she opened them again he was gone.



CHAPTER XIX

THE GREAT HONOR ROLL

At midnight, had there been anyone abroad in the garrison to observe them, a number of men, heavily cloaked, might have been seen drifting through the torrential rain that was falling, toward the quarters occupied by Major Lestoype. They were expected, evidently, for they were admitted without hesitation by the carefully selected old soldiers who kept the door. The usual servants had been dismissed to their quarters, and their places were taken by certain tried and trusted veterans of the regiment.

In the quarters of Major Lestoype was a spacious and lofty hall. Thither the new arrivals were conducted. There was an air of great secrecy about their movements. The occasion was evidently felt to be a solemn one by all. Major Lestoype was not yet present. As they threw off their cloaks it was seen that they were soldiers of the Fifth regiment of the line, to continue to give it the familiar title. Each one was arrayed in his best parade uniform. They were of every rank below that of Major, and included among them were several non-commissioned officers and a few private soldiers of reputation and standing. The men were of all ages too, although the non-commissioned officers and privates were, in every instance, veterans. These last stood in a little group by themselves, although there was no attempt on the part of the officers to emphasize any difference in rank on such an occasion.

There were, perhaps, a hundred men in the company when all had been assembled. They had been chosen with the utmost care. The list included all the officers, except certain new officers who had been assigned to the regiment from other regiments of whom Major Lestoype and the veteran captains were not sure. Certain other young officers, sons or connections of influential royalists now in high favor with King Louis XVIII, who had also been assigned to the regiment were of course excluded.

Those who were there were known men, all tried and true. Major Lestoype himself had been a private when the Fifth-of-the-Line had followed the Emperor, then but General Bonaparte, into Italy on that first and most marvelous of the campaigns of the great Captain. He had seen service in Egypt and had been present with the First Consul at the decisive battle at Marengo. Into his hand as a non-commissioned officer thereafter the newly made Emperor had delivered the Eagle. Naturally, he experienced toward it almost the feeling of a father for his child.

Every other man there was associated in some way with that imperial emblem, their regimental standard. As has been said, it was not the flag for which they cared; flags were of perishable silk or cloth; they could be and often were destroyed in battle. They could be replaced. Some regiments stripped the colors from the poles before they went into action. It was the Eagle that was precious and to be defended. It was the Eagle that was in their hearts almost eternal.

It was to receive their Eagle again that these officers and men had been summoned. They did not know that definitely yet, but some whisper of it had been in the air. They were on the qui vive for the developments of the evening and full of restless excitement. When the great door was at last thrown open and the Senior Captain caught sight of the tall, lean figure of his commander, he instantly came to attention and said sharply:

"Gentlemen, attention. The Major Commanding."

To be sure, Lestoype no longer occupied that position. His place had been taken by the Marquis d'Aumenier, but in the mind of the Senior Captain and of the others the old Major still was supreme and he said the words quite naturally.

The talking ceased at once, the well-drilled officers and men stood at attention, their hands raised in salute. Major Lestoype in full uniform, his breast bright with all his medals and orders—and it was observable that everybody else had adorned himself with every decoration he possessed, even those that had become illegal and valueless, forbidden even, after the fall of the Empire—entered the room, acknowledged the salutes and bowed ceremoniously to the officers assembled. He was followed by a tall slender young man on this occasion dressed again in the uniform of the regiment.

And yet there was a difference between this stranger and the other officers. While from the uniforms of the other officers had been carefully removed everything which in the least degree suggested the Empire, no such deletion had taken place with the equipment of the young man. On the contrary, the buttons, the brasses, the braids, the tricolored cockade; in short, everything was just as it was before the restoration.

The eyes of the soldiers gleamed as they immediately recognized the difference. They looked upon him with a certain envy, because he so boldly sported that of which they were deprived. At first they did not recognize the man who had the hardihood thus to display the insignia of Napoleon in the kingdom of Louis. It was not until he had advanced further in the room and stood in the full light of the chandelier and Major Lestoype turned toward him that one of the veterans recognized him.

"By the living God," cried a deep voice, "Marteau!"

Instantly the name was caught up.

"Marteau! Marteau! Marteau!" came from all parts of the room.

"Gentlemen, comrades," said Lestoype, raising his hand, "I beseech you, silence. Walls have ears. Every man here is tried and true. We are trusting our lives and honor to one another, but what may be outside I know not. We must do nothing to attract any attention. Therefore, restrain yourselves, I beg. Captain Marteau, for it is indeed he, gentlemen, has brought back to the regiment——"

He paused a moment, with an instinctive feeling for the dramatic. Perhaps the little scene had been prearranged. Marteau had carried his hand behind his back. As Lestoype stopped he brought his hand to the front of his body. There in the light of the candles, from the great chandelier above, the officers and soldiers saw the thing which they venerated next to God. For a moment they stared, almost aghast at the gilded emblem in Marteau's hand. Eyes sparkled in some faces, brimmed with tears in others, cheeks paled on one hand and flushed upon the other; breaths came quicker, a low murmur ran through the room—almost terrible in its meaning.

"The Eagle of the regiment, messieurs," said old Lestoype solemnly, breaking the silence.

"Vive l'Empereur!" suddenly exclaimed a veteran port-aigle, or standard bearer, in a low but tense voice, and the mighty battle-cry swept softly through the room from man to man, in low notes, in broken whispers like a great wavering sigh from a multitude of throbbing hearts.

"Is it the same?" asked one as the sound died away.

"The very same," answered Lestoype. "It was given into my hands years ago. I had someone write down the Emperor's words then. I committed them to memory. I can hear him speak now."

"And what were those words we ask you, we, who are young in the regiment," broke out a youth who was yet a veteran of the German campaign of 1813.

"The Emperor, turning to Marshal Berthier, took the Eagle from him, he held it up thus in his own hands."

Lestoype turned to Marteau and suited the gesture to the word. He seized the Eagle and advanced a step and those who watched him so keenly noticed how he trembled. It was to him as if the Emperor were there again. Some mystic aura of his mighty presence seemed to overhang the uplifted Eagle.

"Gentlemen, we were paraded on the Champ de Mars with thousands of others. The Eagles had been marched along the line with the ruffles of drums and blare of bugles. It was raining like tonight, there was no sun, but never saw I a brighter day. The Emperor said:

"'Soldiers of the Fifth regiment of Infantry of the Line, I entrust to you the Eagle of France. It is to serve to you ever as your rallying point. You swear to me never to abandon it but with life? You swear never to suffer an affront to it for the honor of France? You swear ever to prefer death to dishonor for it? You swear?'"

As the words of the old officer died away, moved by a common impulse, the hands of the men before him went to their swords. With sweeping gestures they dragged them out of their sheaths, up into the air they heaved the shining blades.

"We swear," they said solemnly, instinctively repeating the ceremony of the past in which some of them had participated and of which all had heard.

As their words died away the gruff voices of the non-commissioned officers and privates standing at salute repeated the acclaim, in accordance with the custom.

"It was so when the Eagle was given," said old Lestoype, deeply gratified by the spontaneous tribute. "Gentlemen and comrades, be seated, if you please. I have called you here for the honor of the regiment to consult as to what is to be done."

"Mon Commandant," said an old veteran, stepping forward as those present sought seats where they could, "I was port-aigle of the regiment before Dresden. May I not take in my hand again the 'cou-cou'?"

That was the cant name which the soldiers gave to the standard, a term of affection, of familiarity, of comradeship which in no way indicated any lack of respect or any diminution of determination to die for it if necessary.

"To you I gladly commit it until we have determined what is to be done with it," said Lestoype, handing it to the old man.

It seemed a perfectly natural and spontaneous act to the officers present when the port-aigle pressed his lips reverently upon the number plate below the feet of the Eagle and then, disdaining to sit down, stood at attention, holding it before him.

"Will you not tell us, Mon Commandant," said another of the younger officers, "something more about the Eagle before we discuss its disposition?"

"I was a Sub-Lieutenant at Austerlitz," said Lestoype, only too anxious to comply. "We were under the command of Marshal Soult, club-footed Soult we called him, upon the heights of Pratzen. In the advance we were overwhelmed. The port-aigle was killed. I was close at hand. I seized the staff but a bullet got me in the shoulder, here. My arm has been stiff ever since. I fell—a Russian—we were that closely intermingled and fighting hand to hand—seized the staff. I lapsed into unconsciousness. Captain Grenier—you were Sergeant-Major then—finish the story."

"Willingly, Major Lestoype. I cut down that Russian, although wounded myself, and tore the staff from him as he fell. But I couldn't hold it. I fell with it at your feet. Our men had been driven back. There was nobody beside us but the regimental dog."

"Mustache," said one of the other officers, and all eyes turned toward the stuffed skin of a mongrel poodle dog mounted in a glass case hung against the wall. Hands went up in salute. Some of the soldiers laughed grimly.

"The brave Mustache," continued Grenier. "He leaped over my prostrate body. I was conscious still. I saw it all. I would have given worlds for strength, but I was helpless. Still Mustache was enough. He loved the port-aigle. He seemed to know the Eagle was in danger. He snapped at the hands of the Russian. The man drew back and cut at him with his sword. Perhaps I should have received that blow. You see where the forepaw of the dog was sliced off? But he had the spirit of a French soldier, that brave dog, and he kept them off until the regiment rallied and came back and drove away the Russians. Marshal Lannes had a collar made for Mustache. You can see it there around his neck, young gentlemen," continued the old Captain. "On one side the inscription reads: 'He lost a leg in the battle of Austerlitz but he saved the Eagle of his regiment.' On the other side: 'Mustache, a dog of France, who will be everywhere respected and honored as a brave soldier.'"

"What became of the dog?" asked another.

"He was carried on the roll of the regiment until he was killed by an English cannon ball at Badajos. We took the skin and it is there, but we buried the brave heart and the rest of him on the rampart where he fell. The soldiers put up a stone above him. 'Here lies the brave Mustache,' it read. I think the English left it standing."

"That Eagle has been in every capital of Europe, messieurs," remarked another veteran. "Rome, Berlin, Vienna, Madrid, Moscow."

"It charged with the Guard at Eylau," said Drehon. "You remember, comrades, some of you at least, how we went forward in support of the battalions of the Guard under General Dorsenne?"

"I remember, I remember," came from one and another.

"Hein," said a veteran, "he was a bold soldier."

"And a handsome one. They called him 'Le Beau Dorsenne,'" continued Drehon. "The Guard advanced at arms-aport and so did we. Our drums and theirs were rolling La Grenadiere. One of his staff said to him as we drew near the ranks of the Russians, 'Hadn't we better begin firing, my General?' 'No,' said the proud Dorsenne haughtily. 'Grenadiers keep your arms aport,' he continued as he saw some wavering. 'The old guard only fights at the point of the bayonet.'"

"And what happened?"

"The Russians seemed to be paralyzed. They stood and watched us. When they finally did fire, in their excitement, they overshot us. The next instant we burst upon them. Our bayonets came down to a charge. They couldn't stand before us, comrades. Corbleu! the white snow was red with blood that day! A squadron of cavalry, the Emperor's escort, struck them in the rear at the same time and between us we cut them to pieces. They were heavy, those big Russians, to toss on the bayonet, but we did it."

"Was that when the Emperor called us 'The Terrible Fifth'?" queried a voice.

"That was the time."

"Tell us more," came from the excited assemblage.

"They gave us the gold wreath, there in Paris, after Jena and Eylau and Friedland. They loved the Eagle then, those Parisians," said Adjutant Suraif, taking up the tale. "The women fell on our necks and kissed us when we came marching back. They threw us flowers. They opened their arms to us. They gave us wine. Ah, that was fine."

"At Ratisbon," said the old Major, "I commanded the regiment at the bridge-head. We fought the Austrians off all day, giving the Emperor time to make his dispositions. We captured four hundred prisoners, an Austrian battle flag, and three other flags. The firing was terrible, our cou-cou lost some leaves of his wreath there. We were alone there and at nightfall our ammunition was all gone. The Austrians were there in thousands. They charged and overwhelmed us."

"But the Eagle?"

"Ah, we had taken precaution," laughed the old Major. "We wrapped the 'cou-cou' up in the Austrian standard and in the battle flags and buried it in a cellar, so when they captured us they got nothing but the men and, of course, we didn't matter."

"And how did you get it back?" came an excited question.

"The Emperor took the town the day after. They had kept us prisoners there and so we were free. I shall never forget the Emperor on that day. He rode down to us where we had formed in ranks. He looked over us. His glance pierced every man's heart. 'Soldiers of the Fifth,' he said, 'when I heard of the attack on the bridge at Ratisbon I said to my staff, "I am tranquil, the Terrible Fifth is there," and now I see you alive, many of you unharmed, and without your Eagle. What have you done with it?' he thundered out his face black as midnight. 'Sire,' said I, stepping forward and upon my word, comrades, it took more courage to face the Emperor in that mood than to charge an Austrian battery, 'we have not lost our Eagle. We have buried it and having been but this instant released from captivity by your Majesty, we await your permission to dig it up.' 'Go and resurrect it,' he said sharply. 'I will wait.'"