Authors: Baroness Emmuska Orczy
As soon as the order is given and the two little armies stand face to
face the Polish Lancers halt and the Old Guard stand still.
And it almost seems for the moment as if Nature herself stood still and
listened, and looked on. The genial midday sun is slowly melting the
snow on pine trees and rocks; one by one the glistening tiny crystals
blink and vanish under the warmth of the kiss; the hard, white road
darkens under the thaw and slowly a thin covering of water spreads over
the icy crust of the lakes.
Napoleon tells Colonel Mallet to order the men to lower their arms.
Mallet protests, but Napoleon reiterates the command, more peremptorily
this time, and Mallet must obey. Then at the head of his old chasseurs,
thus practically disarmed, the Emperor—and he is every inch an Emperor
now—walks straight up to Delessart's opposing troops.
Hot-headed St. Genis cries: "Here he is!—Fire, in Heaven's name!"
But the sapeurs—the old regiment in which Napoleon had served as a
young lieutenant in those glorious olden days—are now as pale as death,
their knees shake under them, their arms tremble in their hands.
At ten paces away from the foremost ranks Napoleon halts:
"Soldiers," he cries loudly. "Here I am! your Emperor, do you know me?"
Again he advances and with a calm gesture throws open his well-worn grey
redingote.
"Fire!" cries St. Genis in mad exasperation.
[Pg 149]
"Fire!" commands Delessart in a voice rendered shaky with overmastering
emotion.
Silence reigns supreme. Napoleon still advances, step by step, his
redingote thrown open, his broad chest challenging the first bullet
which would dare to end the bold, adventurous, daring life.
"Is there one of you soldiers here who wants to shoot his Emperor? If
there is, here I am! Fire!"
Which of these soldiers who have served under him at Jena and Austerlitz
could resist such a call. His voice has lost nothing yet of its charm,
his personality nothing of its magic. Ambitious, ruthless, selfish he
may be, but to the army, a friend, a comrade as well as a god.
Suddenly the silence is broken. Shouts of "Vive l'Empereur!" rend the
air, they echo down the narrow valley, re-echo from hill to hill and
reverberate upon the pine-clad heights of Taillefer. Broken are the
ranks, white cockades fly in every direction, tricolours appear in their
hundreds everywhere. Shakos are waved on the points of the bayonets, and
always, always that cry: "Vive l'Empereur!"
Sapeurs and infantrymen crowd around the little man in the worn grey
redingote, and he with that rough familiarity which bound all soldiers'
hearts to him, seizes an old sergeant by the ends of his long moustache:
"So, you old dog," he says, "you were going to shoot your Emperor, were
you?"
"Not me," replies the man with a growl. "Look at our guns. Not one of
them was loaded."
Delessart, in despair yet shaken to the heart, his eyes swimming in
tears, offers his sword to Napoleon, whereupon the Emperor grasps his
hand in friendship and comforts him with a few inspiring words.
Only St. Genis has looked on all this scene with horror and contempt.
His royalist opinions are well known, his
[Pg 150]
urgent appeal to Delessart a
while ago to "shoot the brigand and his hordes" still rings in every
soldier's ear. He is half-crazy with rage and there is quite an element
of terror in the confused thoughts which crowd in upon his brain.
Already the sapeurs and infantrymen have joined the ranks of the Old
Guard, and Napoleon, with that inimitable verve and inspiring eloquence
of which he was pastmaster, was haranguing his troops. Just then three
horsemen, dressed in the uniform of officers of the National Guard and
wearing enormous tricolour cockades as large as soup-plates on their
shakos, are seen to arrive at a break-neck gallop down the pass from
Grenoble.
St. Genis recognised them at a glance: they were Victor de Marmont,
Surgeon-Captain Emery and their friend the glovemaker, Dumoulin. The
next moment these three men were at the feet of their beloved hero.
"Sire," said Dumoulin the glovemaker, "in the name of the citizens of
Grenoble we hereby offer you our services and one hundred thousand
francs collected in the last twenty-four hours for your use."
"I accept both," replied the Emperor, while he grasped vigorously the
hands of his three most devoted friends.
St. Genis uttered a loud and comprehensive curse: then he pulled his
horse abruptly round and with such a jerk that it reared and plunged
madly forward ere it started galloping away with its frantic rider in
the direction of Grenoble.
And Grenoble itself was in a turmoil.
In the barracks the cries of "Vive l'Empereur!" were incessant; Général
Marchand was indefatigable in his efforts to still that cry, to rouse in
the hearts of the soldiers a sense of loyalty to the King.
[Pg 151]
"Your country and your King," he shouted from barrack-room to
barrack-room.
"Our country and our Emperor!" responded the soldiers with ever-growing
enthusiasm.
The spirit of the army and of the people were Bonapartist to the core.
They had never trusted either Marchand or préfet Fourier, who had turned
their coats so readily at the Restoration: they hated the émigrés—the
Comte de Cambray, the Vicomte de St. Genis, the Duc d'Embrun—with their
old-fashioned ideas of the semi-divine rights of the nobility second
only to the godlike ones of the King. They thought them arrogant and
untamed, over-ready to grab once more all the privileges which a bloody
Revolution had swept away.
To them Napoleon, despite the brilliant days of the Empire, despite his
autocracy, his militarism and his arrogance, represented "the people,"
the advanced spirit of the Revolution; his downfall had meant a return
to the old regime—the regime of feudal rights, of farmers general, of
heavy taxation and dear bread.
"Vive l'Empereur!" was cried in the barracks and "Vive l'Empereur!" at
the street corners.
A squadron of Hussars had marched into Grenoble from Vienne just before
noon: the same squadron which a few months ago at a revue by the Comte
d'Artois in the presence of the King had shouted "Vive l'Empereur!" What
faith could be put in their loyalty now?
But two infantry regiments came in at the same time from Chambéry and on
these Général Marchand hoped to be able to reckon. The Comte Charles de
la Bédoyère was in command of the 7th regiment, and though he had served
in Prussia under Napoleon he had tendered his oath loyally to Louis
XVIII. at the Restoration. He was a tried and able soldier and Marchand
believed in him. The General himself reviewed both infantry regiments on
the Place
[Pg 152]
d'Armes on their arrival, and then posted them upon the
ramparts of the city, facing direct to the southeast and dominating the
road to La Mure.
De la Bédoyère remained in command of the 7th.
For two hours he paced the ramparts in a state of the greatest possible
agitation. The nearness of Napoleon, of the man who had been his comrade
in arms first and his leader afterwards, had a terribly disturbing
effect upon his spirit. From below in the city the people's mutterings,
their grumbling, their sullen excitement seemed to rise upwards like an
intoxicating incense. The attitude of the troops, of the gunners, as
well as of the garrison and of his own regiment, worked more potently
still upon the Colonel's already shaken loyalty.
Then suddenly his mind is made up. He draws his sword and shouts: "Vive
l'Empereur!"
"Soldiers!" he calls. "Follow me! I will show you the way to duty!
Follow me! Vive l'Empereur!"
"Vive l'Empereur!" vociferate the troops.
"After me, my men! to the Bonne Gate! After me!" cries De la Bédoyère.
And to the shouts of "Vive l'Empereur!" the 7th regiment of infantry
passes through the gate and marches along the streets of the suburb on
towards La Mure.
Général Marchand, hastily apprised of the wholesale defection, sends
Colonel Villiers in hot haste in the wake of De la Bédoyère. Villiers
comes up with the latter two kilomètres outside Grenoble. He talks, he
persuades, he admonishes, he scolds, De la Bédoyère and his men are
firm.
"Your country and your king!" shouts Villiers.
"Our country and our Emperor!" respond the men. And they go to join the
Old Guard at Laffray while Villiers in despair rides back into Grenoble.
In the town the desertion of the 7th has had a very serious effect. The
muttered cries of "Vive l'Empereur!"
[Pg 153]
are open shouts now. Général
Marchand is at his wits' ends. He has ordered the closing of every city
gate, and still the soldiers in batches of tens and twenties at a time
contrive to escape out of the town carrying their arms and in many cases
baggage with them. The royalist faction—the women as well as the
men—spend the whole day in and out of the barrack-rooms talking to the
men, trying to infuse into them loyalty to the King, and to cheer them
up by bringing them wine and provisions.
In the afternoon the Vicomte de St. Genis, sick, exhausted, his horse
covered with lather, comes back with the story of the pass of Laffray,
and Napoleon's triumphant march toward Grenoble. Marchand seriously
contemplates evacuating the city in order to save the garrison and his
stores.
Préfet Fourier congratulates himself on his foresight and on that he has
transferred the twenty-five million francs from the cellars of the Hôtel
de Ville into the safe keeping of M. le Comte de Cambray. He and Général
Marchand both hope and think that "the brigand and his horde" cannot
possibly be at the gates of Grenoble before the morrow, and that Mme. la
Duchesse d'Agen would be well on her way to Paris with the money by that
time.
Marchand in the meanwhile has made up his mind to retire from the city
with his troops. It is only a strategical measure, he argues, to save
bloodshed and to save his stores, pending the arrival of the Comte
d'Artois at Lyons, with the army corps. He gives the order for the
general retreat to commence at two o'clock in the morning.
Satisfied that he has done the right thing, he finally goes back to his
quarters in the Hotel du Dauphiné close to the ramparts. The Comte de
Cambray is his guest at dinner, and toward seven o'clock the two men at
last sit down to a hurried meal, both their minds filled with
apprehension
[Pg 154]
and not a little fear as to what the next few days will
bring.
"It is, of course, only a question of time," says the Comte de Cambray
airily. "Monseigneur le Comte d'Artois will be at Lyons directly with
forty thousand men, and he will easily crush that marauding band of
pirates. But this time the Corsican after his defeat must be put more
effectually out of harm's way. I, personally, was never much in favour
of Elba."
"The English have some islands out in the Atlantic or the Pacific,"
responds Général Marchand with firm decision. "It would be safest to
shoot the brigand, but failing that, let the English send him to one of
those islands, and undertake to guard him well."
"Let us drink to that proposition, my dear Marchand," concludes M. le
Comte with a smile.
Hardly had the two men concluded this toast, when a fearful din is
heard, "regular howls" proceeding from the suburb of Bonne. The windows
of the hotel give on the ramparts and the house itself dominates the
Bonne Gate and the military ground beyond it. Hastily Marchand jumps up
from the table and throws open the window. He and the Comte step out
upon the balcony.
The din has become deafening: with a hand that slightly trembles now
Général Marchand points to the extensive grounds that lie beyond the
city gate, and M. le Comte quickly smothers an exclamation of terror.
A huge crowd of peasants armed with scythes and carrying torches which
flicker in the frosty air have invaded the slopes and flats of the
military zone. They are yelling "Vive l'Empereur!" at the top of their
voices, and from walls and bastions reverberates the answering cry "Vive
l'Empereur!" vociferated by infantrymen and gunners and sapeurs, and
echoed and re-echoed with passionate enthusiasm by the people of
Grenoble assembled in their
[Pg 155]
thousands in the narrow streets which abut
upon the ramparts.
And in the midst of the peasantry, surrounded by them as by a cordon,
Napoleon and his small army, just reinforced by the 7th regiment of
infantry, have halted—expectant.
Napoleon's aide-de-camp, Capitaine Raoul, accompanied by half a dozen
lancers, comes up to the palisade which bars the immediate approach to
the city gates.
"Open!" he cries loudly, so loudly that his young, firm voice rises
above the tumult around. "Open! in the name of the Emperor!"
Marchand sees it all, he hears the commanding summons, hears the
thunderous and enthusiastic cheers which greet Captain Raoul's call to
surrender. He and the Comte de Cambray are still standing upon the
balcony of the hotel that faces the gate of Bonne and dominates from its
high ground the ramparts opposite. White-cheeked and silent the two men
have gazed before them and have understood. To attempt to stem this tide
of popular enthusiasm would inevitably be fatal. The troops inside
Grenoble were as ready to cross over to "the brigand's" standard as was
Colonel de la Bédoyère's regiment of infantry.
The ramparts and the surrounding military zone were lit up by hundreds
of torches; by their flickering light the two men on the balcony could
see the faces of the people, and those of the soldiers who were even now
being ordered to fire upon Raoul and the Lancers.
Colonel Roussille, who is in command of the troops at the gate, sends a
hasty messenger to Général Marchand: "The brigand demands that we open
the gate!" reports the messenger breathlessly.