Authors: Baroness Emmuska Orczy
That the great adventurer's triumph would be short-lived Clyffurde was
perfectly sure. He knew the temper of England and believed in the
military genius of Wellington. England would never tolerate for a moment
longer than she could help that the firebrand of Europe should once more
sit upon the throne of France, and unless the allies had greatly altered
their policy in the past ten months and refused England the necessary
support, Wellington would be more than a match for the decimated army of
Bonaparte.
But a few weeks—months, perhaps, might elapse before Napoleon was once
again put entirely out of action—and this time more completely and more
effectually than with a small kingdom wherein to dream again of European
conquests; during those weeks and months Brestalou and its inhabitants
would be at the mercy of the man from Corsica—the island of unrest and
of never sleeping vendetta.
De Marmont was ready enough to talk. He knew noth
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ing, of course, of
Napoleon's plans and ideas save what Emery had told him. But what he
lacked in knowledge he more than made up in imagination. Excitement too
had made him voluble. He talked freely and incessantly: "The Emperor
would do this. . . . The Emperor will never tolerate that . . ." was all
the time on his lips.
He bragged and he swaggered, launched into passionate eulogies of the
Emperor, and fiery denunciations of his enemies. Berthier, Clark,
Foucher, de Marmont, they all deserved death. Ney alone was to be
pardoned, for Ney was a fine soldier—always supposing that Ney would
repent. But men like the Comte de Cambray were a pest in any
country—mischief-making and intriguing. Bah! the Emperor will never
tolerate them.
Suddenly Clyffurde—who had become half-drowsy, lulled to somnolence by
de Marmont's incessant chatter and the monotonous jog-trot of the
horses—woke to complete consciousness. He pricked his ears and in a
moment was all attention.
"They think that they can deceive me," de Marmont was saying airily.
"They think that I am as great a fool as they are, with their talk of
Mme. la Duchesse's journey north, directly after the wedding! Bah! any
dolt can put two and two together: the Comte tells me in one breath that
he had a visit from Fourier in the afternoon, and that the Duchesse—who
only arrived in Brestalou yesterday—would leave again for Paris on the
day after to-morrow, and he tells it me with a mysterious air, and adds
a knowing wink, and a promise that he would explain himself more fully
later on. I could have laughed—if it were not all so miserably stupid."
He paused for want of breath and tried to peer through the window of the
coach.
"It is pitch-dark," he said, "but we can't be very far from the city
now."
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"I don't see," rejoined Clyffurde, ostentatiously smothering a yawn,
"what M. le préfet's visit to Brestalou had to do with the Duchesse's
journey to the north. You have got intrigues on the brain, my good de
Marmont."
And with well-feigned indifference, he settled himself more cosily into
the dark corner of the carriage.
De Marmont laughed. "What Fourier's afternoon visit has to do with Mme.
d'Agen's journey?" he retorted, "I'll tell you, my good Clyffurde.
Fourier went to see M. le Comte de Cambray this afternoon because he is
a poltroon. He is terrified at the thought that the unfortunate Empress'
money and treasure are still lying in the cellars of the Hôtel de Ville
and he went out to Brestalou in order to consult with the Comte what had
best be done with the money."
"I didn't know the ex-Empress' money was lying in the cellar of the
Hôtel de Ville," remarked Clyffurde with well-assumed indifference.
"Nor did I until Emery told me," rejoined de Marmont. "The money is
there though: stolen from the Empress Marie Louise by that
arch-intriguer Talleyrand. Twenty-five millions in notes and drafts! the
Emperor reckons on it for current expenses until he has reached Paris
and taken over the Treasury."
"Even then I don't see what Mme. la Duchesse d'Agen has to do with it."
"You don't," said de Marmont drily: "but I did in a moment. Fourier
wouldn't keep the money at the Hôtel de Ville: the Comte de Cambray
would not allow it to be deposited in his house. They both want the
Bourbon to have it. So—in order to lull suspicion—they have decided
that Madame la Duchesse shall take the money to Paris."
"Well!—perhaps!—" said Clyffurde with a yawn. "But are we not in
Grenoble yet?"
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Once more he lapsed into silence, closed his eyes and to all intents and
purposes fell asleep, for never another word did de Marmont get out of
him, until Grenoble was reached and the rue Montorge.
Here de Marmont had his lodgings, three doors from the "Hôtel des
Trois-Dauphins," where fortunately Clyffurde managed to secure a
comfortable room for himself.
He parted quite amicably from de Marmont, promising to call in upon him
in the morning. It would be foolish to quarrel with that young wind-bag
now. He knew some things, and talked of a great many more.
Preparations against the arrival of the Corsican ogre were proceeding
apace. Général Marchand had been overconfident throughout the day—which
was the 5th of March: "The troops," he said, "were loyal to a man. They
were coming in fast from Chambéry and Vienne; the garrison would and
could repulse that band of pirates, and take upon itself to fulfil the
promise which Ney had made to the King—namely to bring the ogre to His
Majesty bound and gagged in an iron cage."
But the following day, which was the 6th, many things occurred to shake
the Commandant's confidence: Napoleon's proclamation was not only posted
up all over the town, but the citizens were distributing the printed
leaflets among themselves: one of the officers on the staff pointed out
to Général Marchand that the 4th regiment of artillery quartered in
Grenoble was the one in which Bonaparte had served as a lieutenant
during the Revolution—the men, it was argued, would never turn their
arms against one whom they had never ceased to idolize: it would not be
safe to march out into the open with men whose loyalty was so very
doubtful.
There was a rumour current in the town that when
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the men of the 5th
regiment of engineers and the 4th of artillery were told that Napoleon
had only eleven hundred men with him, they all murmured with one accord:
"And what about us?"
Therefore Général Marchand, taking all these facts into consideration,
made up his mind to await the ogre inside the walls of Grenoble. Here at
any rate defections and desertions would be less likely to occur than in
the field. He set to work to organise the city into a state of defence;
forty-seven guns were put in position upon the ramparts which dominate
the road to the south, and he sent a company of engineers and a
battalion of infantry to blow up the bridge of Ponthaut at La Mure.
The royalists in the city, who were beginning to feel very anxious, had
assembled in force to cheer these troops as they marched out of the
city. But the attitude of the sapeurs created a very unpleasant
impression: they marched out in disorder, some of them tore the white
cockade from their shakos, and one or two cries of "Vive l'Empereur!"
were distinctly heard in their ranks.
At La Mure, M. le Maire argued very strongly against the destruction of
the bridge of Ponthaut: "It would be absurd," he said, "to blow up a
valuable bridge, since not one kilometre away there was an excellent
ford across which Napoleon could march his troops with perfect ease."
The sapeurs murmured an assent, and their officer, Colonel Delessart,
feeling the temper of his men, did not dare insist.
He quartered them at La Mure to await the arrival of the infantry, and
further orders from Général Marchand. When the 5th regiment of infantry
was reported to have reached Laffray, Delessart had the sapeurs out and
marched out to meet them, although it was then close upon midnight.
While Delessart and his troops encamped at Laffray,
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Cambronne—who was
in command of Napoleon's vanguard—himself occupied La Mure. This was on
the 7th. The Mayor—who had so strongly protested against the
destruction of the bridge of Ponthaut—gathered the population around
him, and in a body men, women and children marched out of the borough
along the Corps-Sisteron road in order to give "the Emperor" a rousing
welcome.
It was still early morning. Napoleon at the head of his Old Guard
entered La Mure; a veritable ovation greeted him, everyone pressed round
him to see him or touch his horse, his coat, his stirrups; he spoke to
the people and held the Mayor and municipal officials in long
conversation.
Just as practically everywhere else on his route, he had won over every
heart; but his small column which had been eleven hundred strong when he
landed at Jouan, was still only eleven hundred strong: he had only
rallied four recruits to his standard. True, he had met with no
opposition, true that the peasantry of the Dauphiné had loudly acclaimed
him, had listened to his harangues and presented him with flowers, but
he had not had a single encounter with any garrison on his way, nor
could he boast of any defections in his favour; now he was nearing
Grenoble—Grenoble, which was strongly fortified and well
garrisoned—and Grenoble would be the winning or losing cast of this
great gamble for the sovereignty of France.
It was close on eleven when the great adventurer set out upon this
momentous stage of his journey: the Polish Lancers leading, then the
chasseurs of his Old Guard with their time-worn grey coats and heavy
bear-skins; some of them were on foot, others packed closely together in
wagons and carts which the enthusiastic agriculturists of La Mure had
placed at the disposal of "the Emperor."
Napoleon himself followed in his coach, his horse being led along.
Amidst thundering cries of "God speed" the small column started on its
way.
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As for the rest, 'tis in the domain of history; every phase of it has
been put on record:—Delessart—worried in his mind that he had not been
able to obey Général Marchand's orders and destroy the bridge of
Ponthaut—his desire to communicate once more with the General; his
decision to await further orders and in the meanwhile to occupy the
narrow defile of Laffray as being an advantageous position wherein to
oppose the advance of the ogre: all this on the one side.
On the other, the advance of the Polish Lancers, of the carts and wagons
wherein are crowded the soldiers of the Old Guard, and Napoleon himself,
the great gambler, sitting in his coach gazing out through the open
windows at the fair land of France, the peaceful valley on his left, the
chain of ice-covered lakes and the turbulent Drac; on his right beyond
the hills frowning Taillefer, snow-capped and pine-clad, and far ahead
Grenoble still hidden from his view as the future too was still
hidden—the mysterious gate beyond which lay glory and an Empire or the
ignominy of irretrievable failure.
History has made a record of it all, and it is not the purpose of this
true chronicle to do more than recall with utmost brevity the chief
incident of that memorable encounter, the Polish Lancers galloping back
with the report that the narrow pass was held against them in strong
force: the Old Guard climbing helter-skelter out of carts and wagons,
examining their arms, making ready: Napoleon stepping quickly out of his
coach and mounting his charger.
On the other side Delessart holding hurried consultation with the
Vicomte de St. Genis whom Général Marchand has despatched to him with
orders to shoot the brigand and his horde as he would a pack of wolves.
Napoleon is easily recognisable in the distance, with his grey overcoat,
his white horse and his bicorne hat; presently he dismounts and walks up
and down across the
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narrow road, evidently in a state of great mental
agitation.
Delessart's men are sullen and silent; a crowd of men and women from
Grenoble have followed them up thus far; they work their way in and out
among the infantrymen: they have printed leaflets in their hands which
they cram one by one into the hands or pockets of the soldiers—copies
of Napoleon's proclamation.
Now an officer of the Old Guard is seen to ride up the pass. Delessart
recognises him. They were brothers in arms two years ago and served
together under the greatest military genius the world has ever known.
Napoleon has sent the man on as an emissary, but Delessart will not
allow him to speak.
"I mean to do my duty," he declares.
But in his voice too there has already crept that note of sullenness
which characterised the sapeurs from the first.
Then Captain Raoul, own aide-de-camp to Napoleon, comes up at full
gallop: nor does he draw rein till he is up with the entire front of
Delessart's battalion.
"Your Emperor is coming," he shouts to the soldiers, "if you fire, the
first shot will reach him: and France will make you answerable for this
outrage!"
While he shouts and harangues the men are still sullen and silent. And
in the distance the lances of the Polish cavalry gleam in the sun, and
the shaggy bear-skins of the Old Guard are seen to move forward up the
pass. Delessart casts a rapid piercing glance over his men. Sullenness
had given place to obvious terror.
"Right about turn! . . . Quick! . . . March!" he commands.
Resistance obviously would be useless with these men, who are on the
verge of laying down their arms. He forces on a quick march, but the
Polish Lancers are already
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gaining ground: the sound of their horses'
hoofs stamping the frozen ground, the snorting, the clanging of arms is
distinctly heard. Delessart now has no option. He must make his men turn
once more and face the ogre and his battalion before they are attacked
in the rear.