The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 32

The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 32

There was no wind, yet so intense was the cold that it seemed to pierce

him through and through. He felt as though he were in a bath of ice.

He determined to keep moving, to walk on straight before him as long

as he had strength to do so. He supposed that he was still upon a road

of some kind, because when he diverged to the right or to the left the

snow became deeper, while if he kept his direct course it did not reach

above his ankles.

 

Onwards he toiled, and still onwards, weary and footsore, yet not quite

despairing. He knew well that if he yielded to his ever-increasing

fatigue so far as to lie down again, he should rise no more. It seemed

as if years had passed since he parted with his comrades, a lifetime

since he quitted Moscow; and as to his old happy life in France, _that_

belonged to another and earlier stage of existence, almost beyond his

recollection.

 

Red rose the sun over the snowy landscape, to sink again, after the

brief wintry day, in clouds of purple and amber. Once more the stars

came out, and still Henri toiled on. But his strength was well-nigh

spent; he was ready to sink from fatigue, and his little store of meat

and vodka had long since been exhausted. “After all,” he thought, “it

is hopeless. As well die first as last.--But what is this? Have the

stars come down upon the ground? or whence are those lights I see in

the distance?”

 

He tried to collect his failing senses and to think. Could this be

a town he was approaching? No; the lights were not numerous enough.

Perhaps it might be a Russian village? Scarcely; for that the lights

seemed too far apart,--though, even if it were, he would take his

chance and go forward. Better to fall, like some of his comrades,

beneath the axes of the mujiks, than to perish with cold and hunger in

the trackless wilderness.

 

Suddenly he cried aloud, making his voice ring over the snow, “Bivouac

fires!” A gush of joy, long unknown to him, filled his heart, bringing

with it, from its very intensity, a kind of momentary pain, as the

warmth for which he was longing would bring a tingling pain to his

half-frozen limbs. “Bivouac fires!” he cried once more, with a glad,

weak voice. “I shall see the faces of my comrades; I shall hear their

voices. Thank God!”

 

Hope and joy lent new strength to his weary feet. As he drew nearer to

the lights, he saw that the snow was trampled by footsteps and crushed

by wheels. And then the thought occurred to him, “If these should be

our enemies? If I should find myself in the midst of Russians?” But as

the cheerful blaze of the nearest fire grew clearer and more distinct,

and he saw figures moving around it, fear and hesitation vanished. He

felt nothing but a wild longing to get close to it, which grew every

moment more intense. Running, slipping, staggering along as best he

could, at last he threw himself on the ground before the fire, in the

very midst of the group that surrounded it.

 

“Eh! what have we got here?” cried some one with an oath. The words

were French, so much at least was plain to Henri’s bewildered senses;

and at the same time a very savoury odour reaching his nostrils

reminded him that he was famishing with hunger.

 

The next moment he was roughly seized and dragged upon his knees. “What

do you want here? You are none of us. Be off with you, and pretty quick

too!” cried a fellow dressed in a velvet coat which had once belonged

to some Moscow exquisite.

 

Slowly and stiffly Henri rose to his feet. “Comrades,” he said with a

bewildered air, “it is you who are making a mistake. I am one of you--a

Frenchman--a private in the Tenth Infantry--”

 

“Hang the Tenth Infantry! It is every man for himself here. You are not

one of our coterie.[39] We cannot feed all the stragglers of the grand

army. Begone this instant, or--” A push with the butt end of his musket

finished the sentence.

 

The heartless cruelty of his countrymen filled up the measure of

Henri’s cup of suffering. His spirit was broken. With no power, with

scarcely even a wish to struggle any longer for his life, he staggered

slowly away, intending to lie down in the nearest snow-drift and die.

 

Some one took a blazing brand out of the fire and flung it after him.

“If you want fire, take it!” cried he, and a mocking laugh rang in the

ears of Henri. He turned, and said, “Would that I had met this night,

instead of you Frenchmen, a company of Russians--or, still better, a

pack of wolves!”

 

“What is all this about?” asked a deep, hoarse voice, and a tall figure

rose slowly from the opposite side of the fire.

 

“It is a straggler, a _polisson_, who was trying to join our coterie.

We have just been sending him about his business,” was the answer.

 

“What a hurry you were in! Bring him to me,” said the voice of

authority.

 

There was no need to bring him. Henri himself turned gladly, though

very feebly, towards this new arbiter of his fate. But when he saw

him, he started in surprise. It is true that part of his uniform was

concealed by a long cloak lined with fur, but his great hairy cap, and

his white waistcoat and gaiters, showed him to be one of the Old Guard,

the very _élite_ of the French army. These veterans were objects of

envy to all their fellow-soldiers; for while the rest had been treated

with cruel neglect and indifference, receiving between Moscow and

Smolensko absolutely no rations whatever, the Old Guard were well and

carefully fed, and supplied abundantly with wine or spirits. The reason

was obvious. Upon them devolved a duty of paramount importance, that

of guarding the person of Napoleon. Therefore, when the bulk of the

army, demoralized by its sufferings, had broken up into fragments, the

Old Guard was still able to keep rank, to present a noble appearance,

and oppose a firm front to the enemy. Hence the surprise of Henri

at finding one of its number amongst a group of wretched-looking

stragglers belonging to various regiments.

 

Meanwhile the Guardsman surveyed him with a critical eye. “Why, this is

only a slip of a lad, un petit jeune homme,” he said. “He looks half

dead already. Mes enfants, he shall stay with us.”

 

Faint tones of remonstrance began to make themselves heard, but they

were silenced in a very summary fashion. The Guardsman laid his bronzed

hand, hard as iron, upon the shoulder of Henri. “Sacre!” he cried. “You

shall take him and me together. Both of us, or neither!”

 

This was decisive. The poor, abject, half-starved wretches knew their

master; they felt their lives depended upon his care and guidance; and

they obeyed him as, in a time of need, the incapable usually obey any

capable person who undertakes to direct them. Room was made for Henri

beside the fire, and the very man who had flung the brand after him

a few minutes before now volunteered to chafe one of his ears, which

showed symptoms of being frozen.

 

Supper was served, consisting of a piece of roasted horse-flesh without

bread or salt, and a very small quantity of rum, carefully measured out

to each member of the party, and mixed with snow-water. Then every man

crept as close to the fire as he could, wrapped about him what garments

he had, and tried to sleep; every man, that is to say, except the

Guard, who, explaining to Henri that some one must always watch, and

that the first watch of the night devolved upon him, lit his pipe with

a meditative air, and seated himself beside the fire.

 

Weary as Henri was, he could not help asking one or two questions.

“Garde,” he said, “do you know where we are?”

 

“Somewhere on the way to Smolensko, which, if we live, we may reach

perhaps in two days or three.”

 

“Shall we find our regiments again, do you think?”

 

“I cannot answer for yours, my boy; the new ones seem to be melting

like snow-flakes. The Old Guard,” he added with a flash of pride, “is

always to be found, whether by friend or foe.”

 

“These men around us, who are they?”

 

“Waifs and strays, like yourself. We are gathering together in coteries

of a dozen or so, to try and keep one another alive in this horrible

desert.”

 

“Little life they would have left in me, but for _you_, Garde. God

bless you for your kindness.”

 

“Thank you, comrade. Blessings do a man as little harm as curses any

day. Here, take a pull at my pipe.”

 

“No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

 

“More fool you! That is the way you young conscripts die off, because

you never know what is good for you, nor how to keep your souls inside

your bodies. Now, when I was in Egypt”--here he stopped suddenly,

and a look of emotion passed over his bronzed, weather-beaten

features--“ay, Egypt, Italy, Spain,--Lodi, Marengo, Austerlitz, Wagram,

Friedland,--why go over all these now? Why recall the past--the

glorious past? Why, indeed? Have our eagles floated over all the world

to lie buried in a Russian snow-drift! Bah! This confusion is only

temporary. You shall soon see the Emperor rise again in his glory, and

overwhelm our hounds of enemies with destruction. I tell thee, boy, he

is unconquerable. A cloud--a little fleeting cloud--may pass over his

star and hide it for a moment, but it will shine out again all the more

brightly afterwards.”

 

“But,” said Henri sadly, “if he expected us to fight for him, he ought

to have fed us.”

 

“My lad,” said the Guardsman sternly, laying his hand upon Henri’s

shoulder, and turning him round away from the fire, “you see that snow?”

 

“I have seen too much of it,” returned Henri. “I think I shall never

see anything else.”

 

“Out there you go, to have part or lot with us never more, the first

word you speak against the Emperor. With his own hand he gave me these

medals, this cross”--touching his breast--“and, moreover, he said to

me once when he was reviewing us, ‘Pierre Rougeard, I know you for a

brave man. It was you--was it not?--who took that pair of colours at

Lodi?’”

 

“Garde, how were you separated from the rest?”

 

“You will see to-morrow that I am lame. In a skirmish near Moscow I got