Barlasch of the Guard Part 22

"No one," she answered.

"It is not the patron," said Barlasch, muttering his thoughts as he hobbled to the door of his little room, and began unloading his belongings with a view to ablution; for he was a self-contained traveller, carrying with him all he required. "It is not the patron.

Because such a hatred as his cannot be spoken of. It is not your husband, because Napoleon is his G.o.d."

He broke off with one of his violent jerks of the head, almost threatening to dislocate his neck, and looked at her fixedly.

"It is because you have grown into a woman since I went away."

And out came his accusing finger, though Desiree had her back turned towards him, and there was none other to see.

"Ah!" he said, with deadly contempt, "I see, I see!"

"Did you expect me to grow up into a man?" asked Desiree, over her shoulder.

Barlasch stood in the doorway, his lips and jaw moving as if he were masticating winged words. At length, having failed to find a tremendous answer, he softly closed the door.

This was not the only wise old veteran of the Grand Army to see which way the wind blew; for many another after the battle of Malo-Jaroslavetz packed upon his back such spoil as he could carry, and set off on foot for France. For the cold had come at length, and not a horse in the French army was roughed for the snowy roads, nor, indeed, had provision been made to rough them. This was a sign not lost upon those who had horses to care for. The Emperor, who forgot nothing, had forgotten this.

He who foresaw everything, had omitted to foresee the winter. He had ordered a retreat from Moscow, in the middle of October, of an army in summer clothing, without provision for the road. The only hope was to retreat through a new line of country not despoiled by the enormous army in its advance of every grain of corn, every blade of gra.s.s. But this hope was frustrated by the Russians who, hemming them in, forced them to keep the road along which they had made so triumphant a march on Moscow.

Already, in the ranks, it was whispered that by the light of the burning city some had perceived dark forms moving on the distant plains--a Russian army pa.s.sing westward in front of them to await and cut them off at the pa.s.sage of some river. The Russians had fought well at Borodino: they fought desperately at Malo-Jaroslavetz, which town was taken and retaken eleven times and left in cinders.

The Grand Army was no longer in a position to choose its way. It was forced to cross again the battlefield of Borodino, where thirty thousand dead lay yet unburied. But Napoleon was still with them, his genius flas.h.i.+ng out at times with something of the fire which had taken men's breath away and burnt his name indelibly into the pages of the world's history. Even when hard pressed, he never missed a chance of attacking.

The enemy never made a mistake that he did not give them reason to rue it.

To the waiting world came at length the news that the winter, so long r.e.t.a.r.ded, had closed down over Russia. In Dantzig, so near the frontier, a hundred rumours chased each other through the streets; and day by day Antoine Sebastian grew younger and gayer. It seemed as if a weight long laid upon his heart had been lifted at last. He made a journey to Konigsberg soon after Barlasch's return, and came back with eager eyes.

His correspondence was enormous. He had, it seemed, a hundred friends who gave him news and asked something in exchange--advice, encouragement, warning. And all the while men whispered that Prussia would ally herself to Russia, Sweden, and England.

From Paris came news of a growing discontent. For France, among a mult.i.tude of virtues, has one vice unpardonable to Northern men: she turns from a fallen friend.

Soon followed the news of Beresina--a poor little river of Lithuania--where the history of the world hung for a day as on a thread.

But a flash of the dying genius surmounted superhuman difficulties, and the catastrophe was turned into a disaster. The divisions of Victor and Oudinot--the last to preserve any semblance of military discipline--were almost annihilated. The French lost twelve thousand killed or drowned in the river, sixteen thousand prisoners, twelve of the remaining guns.

But they were across the Beresina. There was no longer a Grand Army, however. There was no army at all--only a starving, struggling trail of men stumbling through the snow, without organization or discipline or hope.

It was a disaster on the same gigantic scale as the past victories--a disaster worthy of such a conqueror. Even his enemies forgot to rejoice.

They caught their breath and waited.

And suddenly came the news that Napoleon was in Paris.

CHAPTER XVII. A FORLORN HOPE.

The fire i' the flint Shows not, till it be struck.

"It is time to do something," said Papa Barlasch on the December morning when the news reached Dantzig that Napoleon was no longer with the army--that he had made over the parody of command of the phantom army to Murat, King of Naples--that he had pa.s.sed like an evil spirit unknown through Poland, Prussia, Germany, travelling twelve hundred miles night and day at breakneck speed, alone, racing to Paris to save his throne.

"It is time to do something," said all Europe, when it was too late.

For Napoleon was himself again--alert, indomitable, raising a new army, calling on France to rise to such heights of energy and vitality as only France can compa.s.s; for the colder nations of the North lack the imagination that enables men to pit themselves against the G.o.ds at the bidding of some stupendous will, only second to the will of G.o.d Himself.

"Go to Dantzig, and hold it till I come," Napoleon had said to Rapp.

"Retreat to Poland, and hold on to anything you can till I come back with a new army," he had commanded Murat and Prince Eugene.

"It is time to do something," said all the conquered nations, looking at each other for initiation. And lo! the Master of Surprises struck them dumb by his sudden apparition in his own capital, with all the strings of the European net gathered as if by magic into his own hands again.

While everybody told his neighbour that it was time to do something, no one knew what to do. For it has pleased the Creator to put a great many talkers into this world and only a few men of action to make its history.

Papa Barlasch knew what to do, however.

"Where is that sailor?" he asked Desiree, when she had told him the news which Mathilde brought in from the streets. "He who took the patron's valise that night--the cousin of your husband."

"There is a man at Zoppot who will tell you," she answered.

"Then I go to Zoppot."

Barlasch had lived unmolested in the Frauenga.s.se since his return. He was an old man, ill-clad, with a b.l.o.o.d.y handkerchief bound over one eye.

No one asked him any questions, except Sebastian, who heard again and again the tale of Moscow--how the army which had crossed into Russia four hundred thousand strong was reduced to a hundred thousand when the retreat began; how handmills were issued to the troops to grind corn which did not exist; how the horses died in thousands and the men in hundreds from starvation; how G.o.d at last had turned his face from Napoleon.

"Something must be done. The patron will do nothing; he is in the clouds, he is dreaming dreams of a new France, that bourgeois. I am an old man. Yes, I will go to Zoppot."

"You mean that we should have heard from Charles before now," said Desiree.

"Name of thunder! he may be in Paris!" exclaimed Barlasch, with the sudden anger that anxiety commands. "He is on the staff, I tell you."

For suspense is one of the most contagious of human emotions, and makes a quicker call upon our sympathy than any other. Do we not feel such a desire that our neighbour may know the worst without delay, that we race to impart it to him?

Nor was Desiree alone in the trial which had drawn certain lines about her gay lips; for Mathilde had told her father and sister that should Colonel de Casimir return from the war he would ask her hand in marriage.

"And that other--the Colonel," added Barlasch, glancing at Mathilde, "he is on the staff too. They are safe enough, I tell you that. They are doubtless together. They were together at Moscow. I saw them, and took an order from them. They were... at their work."

Mathilde did not like Papa Barlasch. She would, it seemed, rather have no news at all of de Casimir than learn it from the old soldier, for she quitted the room without even troubling to throw him a glance of disdain.

Barlasch waited with working lips until the sound of her footsteps ceased on the stairs. Then he pushed across the kitchen table a piece of writing-paper, rather yellow and woolly. It had been to Moscow and back.

"Write a word to him," he said. "I will take it to Zoppot."

"But you can send a message by the fisherman whose name I have given you," answered Desiree.

"And will he heed the message? Will he come ash.o.r.e at a word from me--only Barlasch? Remember it is his life that he carries in his hand.

An English sailor with a French name! Thunder of thunder! They would shoot him like a rat!"

Desiree shook her head; but Barlasch was not to be denied. He brought pen and ink from the dresser, and pushed them across the table.

"I would not ask it," he said, "if it was not necessary. Do you think he will mind the danger? He will like it. He will say to me, 'Barlasch, I thank you.' Ah? I know him. Write. He will come."

"Why?" asked Desiree.