The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 31
“I cannot believe that,” said Ivan.
“It is quite true. I heard it from my uncle, who, as you know, is
always about his person. It was that which made me read it first. Now I
love it--better than any other book in the world.”
“Since you tell me all this, I will buy a copy, and take it with me to
the camp. Pope Yefim would be pleased if he knew it. He has sometimes
lamented to me that the unlearned cannot have the scripture narratives
in any tongue they are able to understand. There is the old Slavonic,
of course, but you might almost as well try to read Babylonish.”
“There is French--for _us_,” said Tolstoi; “and I own that it seems a
better thing to me to read the sayings of Christ than the scoffs of
Voltaire.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Ivan answered thoughtfully. After a pause he
added, “Since I have stood alone, like one on a rock in the midst of a
raging sea, with death before me, death behind me, and death on each
side of me, I have sometimes thought what strength it would give me if
only I could look up and see a Face bent down on me from above, a Hand
outstretched to help me.”
The next day the Chevalier Guards began their march, and Ivan with
them. Adrian also returned to his duty; and soon they were in the midst
of one of the most memorable campaigns the world has ever seen.
CHAPTER XX.
WEARY, WANDERING FEET.
“There shall be no more snow,
No weary, wandering feet.”
It was one of the early days of a genuine Russian winter. The vast
and desolate plain between Moscow and Smolensko was white with snow;
bitter winds thick with falling flakes were sweeping over it; and the
wintry sun struggled in vain to pierce a dense frosty fog. A regiment
of French infantry, weary, dispirited, and famishing with hunger,
was toiling through the snow-drifts. Already the ranks were thinned
terribly, while the ghastly faces and shrunken limbs of the survivors
told the story of their sufferings. All the soldier’s pride in his
appearance, in the brightness of his arms, in the trim perfection of
his accoutrements, had vanished long ago; half the disorderly crowd
had thrown away the muskets they were too weak to carry, nor was a
dress to be seen that deserved the name of a uniform. Any warm garment
found amongst the spoils of Moscow was made to do duty as an overcoat,
without regard to the sex of its original wearer. Our old friend Seppel
wore a lady’s fur-lined dressing-gown, whilst the practical Féron
contented himself with a sheep-skin shuba which had once enveloped the
ample form of a Russian coachman. But no fur was warm enough to keep
the bitter cold of that wintry day from the weakened frames of men
whose only food since leaving Moscow had been a few handfuls of rye
soaked in water or a little horse-flesh.
Clinging to the arm of Féron was a form slight and worn, and evidently
ready to sink with fatigue. “Peste! Mind what you are about there!”
cried Féron sharply, as Henri de Talmont stumbled and sank to his knees
in a snow-drift a little deeper than usual. Then, pulling him up again
by main force and setting him on his feet--“Can’t you see where you are
going?” he asked.
“No, I cannot see,” answered Henri in a weary voice. “Féron, you have
been very good to me. But it is no use. You must let me go.”
“I shall do no such thing. Here, my boy, take a pull at this;” and he
put a flask filled with vodka to the lips of his friend. “Now you can
see a little better,” he said with a laugh, as the stimulant brought
a momentary colour to the pale cheek of Henri. “Can’t you hear too?
Listen! there are wheels coming near us, and horse-hoofs. God grant it
may be stores of some kind, and if so”--Féron paused a moment and set
his teeth resolutely--“the Old Guard themselves, with the Emperor at
their head, shall not keep them from us.”
The wheels were already quite close, else under the circumstances they
could not have heard them at all. A carriage drawn by four horses,
and attended by outriders, came dashing by. It had only one occupant,
a general of division, wrapped from head to foot in rich furs; but
every available spot was crammed with packages and bottles. Some of
the men sprang towards it, and clinging to the back or the sides,
begged in piteous accents for bread, meat, spirits, even a little
tobacco--anything “Monsieur le Général” would be good enough to spare
them. The coachman and the outriders had to use their whips pretty
freely to get rid of them. It was only surprising that they did not
take what they wanted by force; but either the lack of courage and
mutual understanding, or perhaps some remains of military discipline,
prevented an outbreak of open violence.
“Fools for their pains!” said Féron bitterly. “They might know by this
time that the general _never_ has anything to spare for the soldier.
But I am glad he is gone, for the sight of his luxuries made me mad.
May his horses break their knees in the next snow-drift! Sure to do it
before long. That’s one comfort!”
“And then,” said a comrade, “perhaps we may overtake him, and get
horses, stores, and all. What a supper we should have!”
“Ay,” observed another, “_his_ horses are very unlike the last we
supped upon. Poor brutes! they were little more than skin and bone.”
“Féron,” asked a third, “are there no horses in this accursed
country--no men, no food, no anything?”
“Not much, I suppose, at the best of times. But remember, my lad, we
marched over this very ground ourselves a few months ago, and wasted
and destroyed all we could find.”
It was too true. In this respect they were filled with the fruit
of their own devices; their wanton acts of pillage and devastation
recoiled upon their own heads.
“Féron,” murmured once more the faint voice of Henri, “I can go no
further. I _must_ lie down and rest.”
“Monsieur Henri, if you lie down on that ground, you rise never more.”
“I know it; but I can bear up no longer. My sight is gone, my limbs are
failing. Dear Féron, let me go.” And in spite of the sustaining arm of
his friend, he staggered and fell. Féron bent over him, entreating him
to rise, and offering his help.
“O Monsieur Henri, think of your mother--of your sister, Mademoiselle
Clémence. If you hope ever to see their sweet faces again, rouse
yourself, exert all your strength.”
But already Henri seemed half-asleep. A look of rest stole over his
worn features, and his eyes were closed. Opening them for a moment,
he murmured, “Féron--my mother--Clémence. Ask them to forgive me.
Good-bye, dear Féron. God bless thee!”
The others meanwhile continued their march. In those terrible days
the fall of a comrade scarcely made a Frenchman turn his head. Seppel
called to Féron, “Come along, man! For what are you lingering?”
To stay behind would be to share the fate of Henri, not to rescue him.
Féron turned sadly away; but after taking two or three steps, turned
back once more, murmuring, “What a fool I am! No good to him, and a
sore loss to me. Still, if he _should_ awake, even for a moment.”
Stooping down, he slipped his flask of vodka into the benumbed hand of
Henri. “Adieu, comrade,” he said. “If ever I see France again, I will
tell thy mother and Mademoiselle Clémence.”
He rejoined his comrades, and marched on; but as long as it continued
in sight, he could not help looking back, every now and then, to that
black spot in the snow where a comrade had lain down to die. “Soon
enough,” he thought, “it will be covered with white, and all trace of
my poor friend gone for ever. Perhaps _I_ may be the next--who knows?”
But at least there was one sufferer unconscious of suffering now. A
feeling of utter peace, of deep content, unknown for many days, steeped
the weary senses of Henri. He seemed to be sinking into the heart of
a profound and dreamless sleep. Pain and fatigue--cold and hunger of
body--aching, feverish unrest of spirit--all had ceased together.
The last sounds that reached his dulled ear before he passed into
unconsciousness were the words of Féron, “Thy mother and Mademoiselle
Clémence.” And once again those beloved faces drew near--bent over
him--glimmered faintly and yet more faintly--at last vanished into air.
But he did not even know that they had vanished. All was oblivion now.
Assuredly never again in this world would Henri de Talmont have
awakened, had not a sudden thrill of agony called him roughly back to
life. He started up to wrestle with a great half-savage wolf-dog, which
had fixed its sharp fangs in his arm. Pain and desperation lent him a
momentary strength, and clenching his hand, he dealt his antagonist a
blow between the eyes that sent it howling away over the snow. Then he
picked up Féron’s flask, and having thanked in his heart that generous
friend, he drank some of its contents, which seemed to infuse new life
into his frame.
Thus strengthened, he rose and stood upon his feet. It was midnight.
The snow had ceased to fall, and the fierce winds of winter had dropped
into utter stillness. Above his head the moon shone forth from a
cloudless sky, and a thousand stars glittered with frosty brightness.
Not a living thing was in sight, not a tree, not even a stone. Nothing
met his gaze but a broad expanse of stainless white, covering the whole
horizon like a veil of silver. How desolate it looked, yet how fair and
pure! With what bright softness the moonbeams touched the snow! and how
calmly the majestic eyes of those sleepless, starry watchers looked
down from on high, as though they would say to the toiling, suffering
sons of men, “We have seen ten thousand times ten thousand nights like
this since the making of the world. We know the secret of the Lord. He
means something by every star and every snowflake; and what he means is
very good.”
“He telleth the number of the stars; he calleth them all by their
names.” The words flashed unbidden through the mind of Henri. He
remembered that in this solitude he was not alone. God was here. He
could not turn to God as his friend, and he _knew_ that he could not.
Brought up in a religious atmosphere, he was all the more distinctly
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