The Czar: A Tale of the Time of the First Napoleon/Chapter 34
CHAPTER XXXIV.
AFTER WATERLOO.
"Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the cross of Christ, my God;
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to his blood."
"A GREAT battle! Napoleon is annihilated! Wellington and the English have done it!" Such was the cry with which Tolstoi rushed breathless into the guard-room where Ivan and others were sitting. The tidings were not wholly unexpected, and yet they came with startling swiftness and suddenness. Only a few days before had Napoleon disclosed his real design, and poured his troops into Belgium. So rapidly had this movement been effected, that while Wellington was actually engaged in writing to the Czar to arrange a plan for an offensive campaign, the French had advanced upon the British and Prussian cantonments, and the firing had begun. Wellington's letter was dated the 15th of June, and by the evening of the 18th—one of the most momentous days in the world's history—Napoleon was a ruined and despairing fugitive.
It was only natural if, after the first outburst of exulting joy at the overthrow of the common enemy, the Russians remembered Moscow and the glories of the German campaigns, and said sadly each to the other, "Ah, why were not we there?"
"I do not grudge the English their laurels," said the captain of the Chevalier Guard. "They are a gallant race, and have been true throughout to the cause of Europe and of freedom. But why were not we at hand, instead of Blucher and those Prussians, to stand by them breast to breast?"
"We can only say, captain, it was the will of God," answered Ivan. "He sent the English and the Prussians to Belgium, and kept us here. He knows—and all the world knows too—that the Czar was as ready for the work as Wellington or Blucher, and would have done it quite as well."
The Czar himself recognized in this event the hand of God, and was satisfied. He had learned a lesson perhaps more difficult than that of being ready to do any work required of him—he was "ready not to do." Without an afterthought of jealousy he saw the work he had begun completed by another, to whom was given the crowning glory of dealing the fatal blow to the enemy he had first grappled with and overthrown. The heart-felt joy with which he gave thanks for the victory of Waterloo was deepened by the thought that the blood of his Russians, shed so freely before in the cause of Europe, had now been mercifully spared.
Three weeks afterwards the allied sovereigns entered Paris once more, and Louis Dix-huit returned in their wake. A second time had the way to his capital been made safe for him by his "dear friends the enemies," as he sarcastically and ungratefully styled his deliverers.
The Chevalier Guard attended their imperial master, and Ivan had the intense joy of a reunion with his young bride. His return was far more speedy than they had either of them dared to hope, and their hearts were filled with thankfulness. Madame de Salgues had removed from Versailles into the city, where she had taken a small house in a fashionable quarter, and Ivan obtained permission to reside with his friends.
Many things had happened during his absence; he had much to hear as well as to tell. The "Hundred Days" had left their impress upon all the household. Madame de Salgues told him she had come to Paris as much from a determination to defy "General Buonaparte" as from a sense of the insecurity of a town like Versailles in such troublous times. Henri, strange to say, had reaped advantage from the general confusion. "When the power of Napoleon was re-established, Madame de Talmont deplored that the army, as a career for her son, was of course out of the question; and Henri thought this a favourable moment for broaching the ideas he had already uttered in confidence to Ivan. They were received much better than he had ventured to expect; and he was now, with his mother's consent, studying under a celebrated architect. "One must sometimes sacrifice one's feelings," she said, "though never one's principles. And, after all, what to do? The army is no longer a place for a man of honour; the bar you do not like; and to the Church there is at least one objection,—I do not wish the noble name of Talmont to die with you."
Emile was now a resident under the roof of his grandmother; he had ceased to wear the uniform of the Ecole Polytechnique. With a few other students who made their imperialism very obtrusive during the Hundred Days, he had the honour of sharing in the downfall of his hero by being expelled at the return of the Bourbons. This ended not only his military and scientific education, but, at least for the present, his hopes of obtaining a commission.
A day or two after his arrival, Ivan inquired for M. de Sartines and his daughter, whom he had not yet seen.
"No doubt they will be here to-morrow," Madame de Salgues answered. "They know you are with us. Besides, we are their near neighbours now, and they seldom leave us three days without a visit."
"Wish they would leave us three weeks!" said Emile. "That little girl is a perfect nuisance."
"My dear boy, how very ungallant you are!" Madame de Salgues observed. "Still," she added, "I must own that Mademoiselle Stéphanie is not by any means improved."
"Not altogether her fault, poor child!" put in Clémence.
"Oh, you always speak for her, ma cousine, because she is like your shadow," said Emile. "Three mornings in the week, at least, Prince Ivan, she comes here. 'Papa,' she says," and the lad imitated the little girl's tones—"'papa will allow me to go to the Tuileries gardens, or the Champs Elysées, or the Louvre, if Mademoiselle Clémence will be so kind as to accompany me.' She has not even the grace to say, 'Madame la Princesse.' But now you have come, we shall have an end of all that."
"Then I am to understand," said Ivan, greatly amused, "that the deterioration in Mademoiselle Stéphanie's character is owing to her intercourse with Clémence?"
"Of course," returned Emile laughing.
"There are those about her," said Madame de Talmont more gravely, "who encourage and applaud her pert speeches; and that, to a child, is absolute cruelty."
"Who did encourage them during the Hundred Days, you mean to say," Emile resumed. "While the Emperor was in power, you were all of you glad to hear, even from the lips of a child, whom no one could punish or seriously blame, the impertinences the grown-up Legitimists were longing to utter, but dared not."
"Some of us," said Madame de Salgues with dignity, "never condescended to conceal our opinions. You will do me the justice to remember, Emile, that I gave to every one, as my chief reason for coming into Paris, my desire to show the usurper I was not afraid of him."
"As if the Emperor—" Emile began indignantly, but fortunately checked himself in time, and turned off his annoyance with a laugh. "You forget, my dear grandmother," he said, "that there was another reason yet more potent. The truth is, Prince Ivan, we came into town to avoid that poor M. de Cranfort. Since the auspicious morning when my cousin became Madame la Princesse, the unfortunate gentleman has not been quite in possession of his senses. It is reported that he carries two loaded pistols about with him, and threatens to shoot first Clémence and then himself."
Every one present laughed heartily, assuring Ivan there was not a word of truth in the story.
"As much, I suppose," said Ivan in a low voice to Emile, "as in another story you told me once—about M. de Sartines."
"I am glad enough now that was false," Emile answered graciously. "That child would have been the death of Clémence. I hope M. de Sartines, if he does marry, will marry a dragon, able to keep her in order. But really," he added, "M. de Cranfort is not quite sane. I have heard him say the most extraordinary things; and, do you know, he was for some years at Charenton?" After a short pause, he resumed suddenly—"Prince Ivan, how is the Emperor Alexander?"
"In excellent health," said Ivan cheerfully.
"I am truly rejoiced to hear it."
"Very kind of you," returned Ivan smiling, but with a slight air of surprise at his emphatic manner.
"Because," resumed Emile, in a tone of mystery, "as we are all friends here, I may observe that we have heard rumours—extraordinary rumours."
"Do you mean about his illness at Vienna? It is true he had a fall from his horse, and—"
"Oh, that is nothing. That is not what I mean. But the strangest things are said of him here, and in the best circles too, where you know he was adored last year. In the Faubourg St. Germain all sorts of 'on dits' are rife about him. People say he has become very singular,—a fanatic, a pietist, and I know not what else; that a certain crazy old lady—"
"Hush, hush, Emile," said Madame de Salgues and Madame de Talmont almost at the same moment. Clémence looked anxiously at Ivan, and Henri started up indignantly. "I, at least, will not stay to listen to such folly," he said.
"A truce, for once, to your championship of the Czar," said Emile. "I suppose Prince Ivan may speak now."
Ivan might have answered angrily, but for certain words which thrilled through his heart, taking all the bitterness out of Emile's reckless taunts: "Esteeming the reproach of Christ greater riches than the treasures of Egypt"—only he said "the treasures of Russia" and the magnificent crown jewels he had seen in St. Petersburg flashed before his eyes in a dazzling, bewildering maze of light and colour. For a moment he did not speak; then he asked, with a gentleness that surprised every one, "What were you going to say, Emile?"
"Nothing—at least not much," was the rather apologetic answer. "Rumour always exaggerates things, and most especially the rumour of St. Germain. Perhaps it is not true, after all, that Madame de Krudener makes the Emperor Alexander fast and wear sackcloth; or that she has persuaded him he is the white angel of peace, and Napoleon the black demon of war; or that—but, as I say, these may be foolish stories. Still it seems to be undeniable that the consummate artist, who last year played the rôle of magnanimous conqueror with such éclat amongst us, is now assuming, by way of variety, that of medieval saint. Henri Quatre is masquerading in the guise of St. Louis. Seriously,—what has come over him, Prince Pojarsky? Is his mind really affected, or is it all some deep-laid political scheme?"
"Certainly, Emile, I am amazed at your audacity," Madame de Salgues interposed again. "Prince Ivan has the patience of a saint."
"From your lips, madame," said Ivan bowing, "I accept the name as a compliment; though others, it seems, use it for a reproach.—Emile, I am not careful to answer you in this matter. You have but to watch the course of events, and you will see that there is not a man in Europe of sounder understanding than my Czar. Of what he has already accomplished I need not remind you; and I had rather not, considering whom he has overcome. If his religious principles expose him to reproach, it is only 'the reproach of the foolish.' They are not new to him, though of late they have deepened and strengthened. All those stories you allude to about his intercourse with Madame de Krudener are fabrications. The grain of truth they contain is the fact that God has been pleased to send him a message by the lips of a woman;—and why should he not?"
To this there was no answer, and the little party broke up. But Ivan drew Emile aside. "I want a word with you," he said. "Do you know in what temper the minds of men are now?"
"Do you mean the minds of Royalists?" asked Emile bitterly. "That I do. I believe that if they had the power they would put every Imperialist of us all to the sword; or if not, it would only be to reserve us for the dungeon and the scaffold. The Bourbons gnash their teeth upon us. The Duchess of Angoulême says openly, 'Mercy cannot be distinguished from weakness.'"
"Ah, my friend, can you wonder? When that stern, sorrow-stricken woman had a girl's tender heart, it was turned to stone by the cruel murder of both her parents and of her young innocent brother. But others who have not the same wrongs to avenge are quite as eager for vengeance."
"They are a bad set, those Bourbons," said Emile.
"Certainly I shall not plead for them. They have not used us or our Emperor well. But consider that in the eyes of a German every Frenchman is as odious as a Buonapartist can be in those of a Royalist. The Prussians talk openly of dismembering France; and, Emile, who is to hinder them? Not Louis—he is powerless; not Austria—she will share the spoils; not England—she is just, and even generous, but do you expect her to go to war single-handed in the cause of her enemies?"
"One man would have hindered them," said Emile—"he who is a captive now. France will soon wish the Emperor back again."
"I respect your faith in your hero, though I do not share it. But, my dear Emile, you cannot deny that, however it has come to pass, the most stupendous genius of modern times has proved, practically, the most stupendous failure."
"Is success always the test of greatness?"
"By no means. But Napoleon has always acted as though it were; has aimed at it, lived for it, sacrificed everything to it, and finally lost it. As he has now left—been forced to leave—his country to the deadly enemies his ambition has raised up against her, what will the end be, Emile?"
"Who can tell? As for me, I feel ready to hang myself."
"Pray for the life and health of my Czar. You will see him stand between the avengers and their prey; between prostrate France and victorious Germany; and even, so far as becomes a foreigner, between prostrate Imperialists and victorious Royalists."
"That it should come to this! That France—our proud, glorious France—should have to thank a Czar of Russia!"
"Where is the shame of thanking him, if God has given him the power to befriend her?"
"God?" Emile repeated scornfully. "That's your way of talking, you Russians. Don't you see now that it ends in folly and fanaticism?"
Ivan laid his hand on the shoulder of Emile. "My dear boy," he said, "do you know why I am talking with you thus? Not to make you believe in my Czar. His glory is in good keeping; and if you prefer Napoleon for a hero, I have no more to say. The cause I want to plead with you is not his, but your own. You call him fanatic and dreamer because of his faith in God and in Christ. I want to show you that it is this very faith which makes him generous, merciful, just."
"I do not see the good of faith," Emile broke in passionately. "I don't mean religious faith, but faith of any kind. We had faith—oh, such intense, glorious, undoubting faith—in the Emperor and in his star. And we loved him so! You cannot understand it, Prince Ivan, but it is true. Do you remember Henri's friend, the Old 'Garde' Rougeard, who came to tell me of the Emperor's return? He fell at Waterloo; a comrade of his, who crept back wounded to die amongst his children, told me about it. When all was lost, the remnant of the Old Guard was called upon to surrender. 'La Garde meurt, mais ne se rend pas,' was the proud reply; and those brave men died where they stood.[1] Poor Rougeard took the colours from the falling ensign, and with his dying hand wrapped them round his breast. 'Vive l'Empereur!' was his last word."
"And the Emperor lived, after such followers as these," said Ivan with tears in his eyes. Emile saw the tears, and they did him more good than a hundred admonitions. Ivan presently resumed: "Suppose, Emile, that when your Emperor dies some one were to try to persuade the world that he had never existed,—that his whole personality, life, and career was a fiction from first to last?"
"Any one who tried it would be laughed at for his pains."
"Of course. Every effect must have a cause. Men do not love, trust in, die for that which is not, and never has been."
"What are you trying to say?" asked Emile, a little surprised.
"That the existence of Christ is as certain as that of Napoleon."
"Was. There was once such a Person, I am sure."
"He is. In the year three thousand six hundred—if the world last so long—who do you think will die for the name of Napoleon Buonaparte? Who will love him, obey him, follow him as my Czar on his throne to-day is not ashamed to confess that he loves and follows his King? Nay, even the glory of my Czar will pass away, the jewels that sparkle in his crown of fame will pale and wane (that will not matter, for he will have cast it long ere then at his Redeemer's feet); but the glory of Christ will last for ever and ever."
"I know you really believe in the Christian religion. I cannot, but I respect those who can."
"I believe in Christ, Emile; and I want you to believe in him too. I want you to search and look, and never rest until you find out—first that he is, then that he is worthy of all your faith and love."
"Where do you want me to look?"
"If you will, at the lives of those who profess this faith. See if it does not produce better and nobler results than any other principle of action. But I had far rather you looked at the picture of Christ himself as you will find it in the holy Scriptures."
"Well, I will try," said Emile, evidently touched. "At least I can read. I have more than time enough for reading now. I study mathematics with Henri; but he is so tiresome that every lesson ends in a quarrel.—Last term I had the second prize at the Polytechnic, and now I expected the first. Was it not hard to be turned out?"
"Very; but you have the consolation of suffering in the cause of your Emperor. If I were you, Emile, I would study hard enough to show the world I was no loser. And, one word more; I would keep away from political meetings, secret meetings especially, and eschew plots and intrigues. They are only snares and pitfalls dug for the feet of those who cling to a lost cause."
"Lost!—Oh, Prince Ivan!"
"My friend, Napoleon has played his game and lost his stake. That is plain to every one. But you have the cards still in your hand. Do not spoil your chance."
"Do you mean my chance of success? I thought you despised success."
"I mean your chance of a noble life. But I ought not to have said 'chance.' There is none."
"There is destiny."
"There is will. Your will, and God's will, which means only good to you, if you will accept it."
"There is something in what you say,—especially about secret meetings," he added in a lower tone. "But it is late; I must go to those mathematics. Good night." He turned away, softly whistling the air of a song very popular with the Imperialists, "Veillons au salut de l'Empire." "I shall watch henceforward over the safety of something else, very dear to Prince Pojarsky," thought the conceited but generous boy. "How little he guesses what plans we have talked of—we Buonapartists—at those secret meetings he denounces! Such, for instance, as the assassination of a certain great personage, in his innocent eyes the greatest in the world! But if ever again, in my presence, any one dares to drop a hint on that subject, I swear the words shall be his last!"
- ↑ This story is not true; but it was believed at the time.