The Bronze Eagle (4 page)

"But Mademoiselle Crystal?" insisted Clyffurde, almost appealingly, for
his whole soul had revolted at the cynicism of the other man.

"Crystal has listened to that ape, St. Genis," replied de Marmont drily,
"one of her own caste . . . a marquis with sixteen quarterings to his
family escutcheon and not a sou in his pockets. She is very young, and
very inexperienced. She has seen nothing of the world as yet—nothing.
She was born and brought up in exile—in England, in the midst of that
narrow society formed by impecunious
émigrés
. . . ."

"And shopkeeping Englishmen," murmured Clyffurde, under his breath.

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"She could never have married St. Genis," reiterated Victor de Marmont
with deliberate emphasis. "The man hasn't a sou. Even Crystal realised
from the first that nothing ever could have come of that boy and girl
dallying. The Comte never would have consented. . . ."

"Perhaps not. But she—Mademoiselle Crystal—would she ever have
consented to marry you, if she had known what your convictions are?"

"Crystal is only a child," said de Marmont with a light shrug of the
shoulders. "She will learn to love me presently when St. Genis has
disappeared out of her little world, and she will accept my convictions
as she has accepted me, submissive to my will as she was to that of her
father."

Once more a hot protest of indignation rose to Clyffurde's lips, but
this too he smothered resolutely. What was the use of protesting? Could
he hope to change with a few arguments the whole cynical nature of a
man? And what right had he even to interfere? The Comte de Cambray and
Mademoiselle Crystal were nothing to him: in their minds they would
never look upon him even as an equal—let alone as a friend. So the
bitter words died upon his lips.

"And you have been content to win a wife on such terms!" was all that he
said.

"I have had to be content," was de Marmont's retort. "Crystal is the
only woman I have ever cared for. She will love me in time, I doubt not,
and her sense of duty will make her forget St. Genis quickly enough."

Then as Clyffurde made no further comment silence fell once more between
the two men. Perhaps even de Marmont felt that somehow, during the past
few moments, the slender bond of friendship which similarity of tastes
and a certain similarity of political ideals had forged between him and
the stranger had been strained to snap
[Pg 32]
ping point, and this for a reason
which he could not very well understand. He drank another draught of
wine and gave a quick sigh of satisfaction with the world in general,
and also with himself, for he did not feel that he had done or said
anything which could offend the keenest susceptibilities of his friend.

He looked with a sudden sense of astonishment at Clyffurde, as if he
were only seeing him now for the first time. His keen dark eyes took in
with a rapid glance the Englishman's powerful personality, the square
shoulders, the head well erect, the strong Anglo-Saxon chin firmly set,
the slender hands always in repose. In the whole attitude of the man
there was an air of will-power which had never struck de Marmont quite
so forcibly as it did now, and a virility which looked as ready to
challenge Fate as it was able to conquer her if she proved adverse.

And just now there was a curious look in those deep-set eyes—a look of
contempt or of pity—de Marmont was not sure which, but somehow the look
worried him and he would have given much to read the thoughts which were
hidden behind the high, square brow.

However, he asked no questions, and thus the silence remained unbroken
for some time save for the soughing of the northeast wind as it whistled
through the pines, whilst from the tiny chapel which held the shrine of
Notre Dame de Vaulx came the sound of a soft-toned bell, ringing the
midday Angelus.

Just then round that same curve in the road, where the two riders had
paused an hour ago in sight of the little hamlet, a man on horseback
appeared, riding at a brisk trot up the rugged, stony path.

Victor de Marmont woke from his rêverie:

"There's Emery," he cried.

He jumped to his feet, then he picked up his hat from the table where he
had laid it down, tossed it up into the
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air as high as it would go, and
shouted with all his might:

"Vive l'Empereur!"

The man who now drew rein with abrupt clumsiness in front of the auberge
looked hot, tired and travel-stained. His face was covered with sweat
and his horse with lather, the lapel of his coat was torn, his breeches
and boots were covered with half-frozen mud.

But having brought his horse to a halt, he swung himself out of the
saddle with the brisk air of a boy who has enjoyed his first ride across
country. Surgeon-Captain Emery was a man well over forty, but to-day his
eyes glowed with that concentrated fire which burns in the heart at
twenty, and he shook de Marmont by the hand with a vigour which made the
younger man wince with the pain of that iron grip.

"My friend, Mr. Clyffurde, an English gentleman," said Victor de Marmont
hastily in response to a quick look of suspicious enquiry which flashed
out from under Emery's bushy eyebrows. "You can talk quite freely,
Emery; and for God's sake tell us your news!"

But Emery could hardly speak. He had been riding hard for the past three
hours, his throat was parched, and through it his voice came up hoarse
and raucous: nevertheless he at once began talking in short, jerky
sentences.

"He landed on Wednesday," he said. "I parted from him on Friday . . . at
Castellane . . . you had my message?"

"This morning early—we came at once."

"I thought we could talk better here—first—but I was spent last
night—I had to sleep at Corps . . . so I sent to you. . . . But now, in
Heaven's name, give me something to drink. . . ."

While he drank eagerly and greedily of the cold spiced
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wine which
Clyffurde had served out to him, he still scrutinised the Englishman
closely from under his frowning and bushy eyebrows.

Clyffurde's winning glance, however, seemed to have conquered his
mistrust, for presently, after he had put his mug down again, he
stretched out a cordial hand to him.

"Now that our Emperor is back with us," he said as if in apology for his
former suspicions, "we, his friends, are bound to look askance at every
Englishman we meet."

"Of course you are," said Clyffurde with his habitual good-humoured
smile as he grasped Surgeon-Captain Emery's extended hand.

"It is the hand of a friend I am grasping?" insisted Emery.

"Of a personal friend, if you will call him so," replied Clyffurde.
"Politically, I hardly count, you see. I am just a looker-on at the
game."

The surgeon-captain's keen eyes under their bushy brows shot a rapid
glance at the tall, well-knit figure of the Englishman.

"You are not a fighting man?" he queried, much amazed.

"No," replied Clyffurde drily. "I am only a tradesman."

"Your news, Emery, your news!" here broke in Victor de Marmont, who
during the brief colloquy between his two friends had been hardly able
to keep his excitement in check.

Emery turned away from the other man in silence. Clearly there was
something about that fine, noble-looking fellow—who proclaimed himself
a tradesman while that splendid physique of his should be at his
country's service—which still puzzled the worthy army surgeon.

But he was primarily very thirsty and secondly as eager to impart his
news as de Marmont was to hear it, so now
[Pg 35]
without wasting any further
words on less important matter he sat down close to the table and
stretched his short, thick legs out before him.

"My news is of the best," he said with lusty fervour. "We left Porto
Ferrajo on Sunday last but only landed on Wednesday, as I told you, for
we were severely becalmed in the Mediterranean. We came on shore at
Antibes at midday of March 1st and bivouacked in an olive grove on the
way to Cannes. That was a sight good for sore eyes, my friends, to see
him sitting there by the camp fire, his feet firmly planted upon the
soil of France. What a man, Sir, what a man!" he continued, turning
directly to Clyffurde, "on board the
Inconstant
he had composed and
dictated his proclamation to the army, to the soldiers of France! the
finest piece of prose, Sir, I have ever read in all my life. But you
shall judge of it, Sir, you shall judge. . . ."

And with hands shaking with excitement he fumbled in the bulging pocket
of his coat and extracted therefrom a roll of loose papers roughly tied
together with a piece of tape.

"You shall read it, Sir," he went on mumbling, while his trembling
fingers vainly tried to undo the knot in the tape, "you shall read it.
And then mayhap you'll tell me if your Pitt was ever half so eloquent.
Curse these knots!" he exclaimed angrily.

"Will you allow me, Sir?" said Clyffurde quietly, and with steady hand
and firm fingers he undid the refractory knots and spread the papers out
upon the table.

Already de Marmont had given a cry of loyalty and of triumph.

"His proclamation!" he exclaimed, and a sigh of infinite satisfaction
born of enthusiasm and of hero-worship escaped his quivering lips.

The papers bore the signature of that name which had
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once been
all-powerful in its magical charm, at sound of which Europe had trembled
and crowns had felt insecure, the name which men had breathed—nay!
still breathed—either with passionate loyalty or with bitter
hatred:—"Napoleon."

They were copies of the proclamation wherewith the heroic
adventurer—confident in the power of his diction—meant to reconquer
the hearts of that army whom he had once led to such glorious victories.

De Marmont read the long document through from end to end in a
half-audible voice. Now and again he gave a little cry—a cry of loyalty
at mention of those victories of Austerlitz and Jena, of Wagram and of
Eckmühl, at mention of those imperial eagles which had led the armies of
France conquering and glorious throughout the length and breadth of
Europe—or a cry of shame and horror at mention of the traitor whose
name he bore and who had delivered France into the hands of strangers
and his Emperor into those of his enemies.

And when the young enthusiast had read the proclamation through to the
end he raised the paper to his lips and fervently kissed the imprint of
the revered name: "Napoleon."

"Now tell me more about him," he said finally, as he leaned both elbows
on the table and fastened his glowing eyes upon the equally heated face
of Surgeon-Captain Emery.

"Well!" resumed the latter, "as I told you we bivouacked among the olive
trees on the way to Cannes. The Emperor had already sent Cambronne on
ahead with forty of his grenadiers to commandeer what horses and mules
he could, as we were not able to bring many across from Porto Ferrajo.
'Cambronne,' he said, 'you shall be in command of the vanguard in this
the finest campaign which I have ever undertaken. My orders are to you,
that you do not
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fire a single unnecessary shot. Remember that I mean to
reconquer my imperial crown without shedding one drop of French blood.'
Oh! he is in excellent health and in excellent spirits! Such a man! such
fire in his eyes! such determination in his actions! Younger, bolder
than ever! I tell you, friends," continued the worthy surgeon-captain as
he brought the palm of his hand flat down upon the table with an
emphatic bang, "that it is going to be a triumphal march from end to end
of France. The people are mad about him. At Roccavignon, just outside
Cannes, where we bivouacked on Thursday, men, women and children were
flocking round to see him, pressing close to his knees, bringing him
wine and flowers; and the people were crying 'Vive l'Empereur!' even in
the streets of Grasse."

"But the army, man? the army?" cried de Marmont, "the garrisons of
Antibes and Cannes and Grasse? did the men go over to him at once?—and
the officers?"

"We hadn't encountered the army yet when I parted from him on Friday,"
retorted Emery with equal impatience, "we didn't go into Antibes and we
avoided Cannes. You must give him time. The people in the towns wouldn't
at first believe that he had come back. General Masséna, who is in
command at Marseilles, thought fit to spread the news that a band of
Corsican pirates had landed on the littoral and were marching
inland—devastating villages as they marched. The peasants from the
mountains were the first to believe that the Emperor had really come,
and they wandered down in their hundreds to see him first and to spread
the news of his arrival ahead of him. By the time we reached Castellane
the mayor was not only ready to receive him but also to furnish him with
5,000 rations of meat and bread, with horses and with mules. Since then
he has been at Digue and at Sisteron. Be sure that the garrisons of
those cities have rallied round his eagles by now."

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Then whilst Emery paused for breath de Marmont queried eagerly:

"And so . . . there has been no contretemps?"

"Nothing serious so far," replied the other. "We had to abandon our guns
at Grasse, the Emperor felt that they would impede the rapidity of his
progress; and our second day's march was rather trying, the mountain
passes were covered in snow, the lancers had to lead their horses
sometimes along the edge of sheer precipices, they were hampered too by
their accoutrements, their long swords and their lances; others—who had
no mounts—had to carry their heavy saddles and bridles on those
slippery paths. But
he
was walking too, stick in hand, losing his
footing now and then, just as they did, and once he nearly rolled down
one of those cursed precipices: but always smiling, always cheerful,
always full of hope. At Antibes young Casabianca got himself arrested
with twenty grenadiers—they had gone into the town to requisition a few
provisions. When the news reached us some of the younger men tried to
persuade the Emperor to march on the city and carry the place by force
of arms before Casabianca's misfortune got bruited abroad: 'No!' he
said, 'every minute is precious. All we can do is to get along faster
than the evil news can travel. If half my small army were captive at
Antibes, I would still move on. If every man were a prisoner in the
citadel, I would march on alone.' That's the man, my friends," cried
Emery with ever-growing enthusiasm, "that's our Emperor!"