‘“What of them?” said the Emperor.
‘“They’ve blown up the bridge, and the fourth corps are still in Leipsic.”
‘The next moment Napoleon was on his horse, surrounded by his staff, and galloping furiously towards the river.
‘Never was a scene more awful than that which now presented itself there. Hundreds of men had thrown themselves headlong into the rapid river, where masses of burning timber were falling on every side; horse and foot all mixed up in fearful confusion struggled madly in the stream, mingling their cries with the shouts of those who came on from behind, and who discovered for the first time that the retreat was cut off. The Duke of Tarento crossed, holding by his horse’s mane. Lauriston had nearly reached the bank, when he sank to rise no more; and Poniatowski, the chivalrous Pole, the last hope of his nation, was seen for an instant struggling with the waves, and then disappeared for ever.
‘Twenty thousand men, sixty great guns, and above two hundred waggons were thus left in the power of the enemy. Few who sought refuge in flight ever reached the opposite bank, and for miles down, the shores of the Elster were marked by the bodies of French soldiers, who thus met their death on that fearful night.
‘Among the disasters of this terrible retreat was the fate of Reynier, of whom no tidings could be had; nor was it known whether he died in battle, or fell a prisoner into the hands of the enemy. He was the personal friend of the Emperor, who in his loss deplored not only the brave and valorous soldier, but the steady adherent to his fortunes through good and evil. No more striking evidence of the amount of this misfortune can be had than the bulletin of Napoleon himself. That document, usually devoted to the expression of vainglorious and exaggerated descriptions of the triumphs of the army—full of those high-flown narratives by which the glowing imagination of the Emperor conveyed the deeds of his soldiers to the wondering ears of France—was now a record of mournful depression and sad reverse of fortune.
‘“The French army,” said he, “continues its march on Erfurt—a beaten army. After so many brilliant successes, it is now in retreat.”
‘Every one is already acquainted with the disastrous career of that army, the greatest that ever marched from France. Each step of their return, obstinately contested against overwhelming superiority of force, however it might evidence the chivalrous spirit of a nation who would not confess defeat, brought them only nearer to their own frontiers, pursued by those whose countries they had violated, whose kings they had dethroned, whose liberties they had trampled on. The fearful Nemesis of war had come. The hour was arrived when all the wrongs they had wreaked on others were to be tenfold inflicted on themselves; when the plains of that “belle France,” of which they were so proud, were to be trampled beneath the feet of insulting conquerors; when the Cossack and the Uhlan were to bivouac in that capital which they so arrogantly styled “the centre of European civilisation.”
‘I need not dwell on these things; I will but ask you to accompany me to Erfurt, where the army arrived five days after. A court-martial was there summoned for the trial of Colonel Montfort of the Engineers, and the party under his command, who in violation of their orders had prematurely blown up the bridge over the Elster, and were thus the cause of that fearful disaster by which so many gallant lives were sacrificed, and the honour of a French army so grievously tarnished. Contrary to the ordinary custom, the proceedings of that court-martial were never made known; * the tribunal sat with closed doors, accessible only to the Emperor himself and the officers of his personal staff.
* The vicomte’s assertion is historically correct.