How full of thought to me was that vast pile, now shrouded in the gloom of night! What bold, ambitious deeds,—what dreams of empire,—had not been conceived there! The great of other days, indeed, entered little into my mind, as I remembered it was the home of him, the greatest of them all. How terrible, too, it was to think, that within that silent palace, which seemed sleeping with the tranquil quiet of an humble cottage, the dreadful plans which were to convulse the world, to shake thrones and dynasties, to make of Europe a vast battlefield, were now devising. The masses of dark cloud that hung heavily in the air, obscuring the sky and shutting out every star, seemed to my fevered imagination an augury of evil; and the oppressive, loaded atmosphere, though perfumed with the odor of flowers, sunk heavily on the spirits. Again the hour rang out, and I remembered that the gates of the garden were now closed for the night, and that I should remain where I was till daylight liberated me. My mind was, however, too full of its own thoughts to make me care for sleep, and I strolled along the gloomy walks lost in revery.
CHAPTER XL. A NIGHT IN THE TUILERIES GARDENS.
As the night wore on, I remembered that once, when a boy at the Polytechnique, I longed to penetrate one of the little enclosures which fenced the small flower-gardens beside the Palace, and which were railed up from the public promenades by a low iron railing. The bouquets of rich flowers that grew there, sparkling with the light dew of a little jet d'eau that fell in raindrops over them, had often tempted my young heart; but still in the daytime such a transgression would have been immediately punished. Now, with the strange caprice which so often prompts us in after years to do that which in youth we wished but could not accomplish, I wandered towards the gardens, and crossing over the low fence, entered the parterre; each step awoke the sleeping perfume of the flowers, and I strolled along the velvet turf until I reached a low bench, half covered with honeysuckle and woodbine. Here I threw myself down, and, wrapping my cloak around me, resolved to rest till daybreak. The stillness of all around, the balmy air, and my own musings, gradually conspired to make me drowsy, and I slept.
My sleep could not have been long, when I was awakened by a noise close beside me. I started up and looked about, and for some seconds I could scarcely credit that I was not still dreaming. Not more than a dozen paces from where I lay, and where before the dark walls of the Palace rose in unbroken blackness, was now a chamber, brilliantly lighted up by several wax-lights that stood on a table. At the window, which opened to the ground and led into the garden, stood the figure of a man, but from his position before the light I could not remark more than that he wore epaulettes. It was the noise of the opening jalousies which awoke me; and I could see his hand stretched out, as if to ascertain whether or not it was raining. At the table I could perceive another person, on whose uniform the light fell strongly, displaying many a cross and star, which twinkled with every stir he made. He was busily engaged writing, and never lifted his head from the paper. The walls of the room were covered with shelves filled with books; and on the chairs about, and even on the floor, lay maps and drawings in every disorder; a sword and belt, as if just taken off, lay on the table among the writing materials, and a cocked hat beside them.
While I noticed these details, my very heart was chill within me. The dark figure at the window, which stirred not, seemed as if turned towards me, and more than once I almost thought I could see his eyes bent upon me. This was, however, but the mere suggestion of my own fears for in the shade of the seat no light whatever fell, and I was perfectly concealed. In the deep stillness I could hear the scraping sound of the pen on the paper, and scarcely dared to breathe lest I should cause discovery, when the figure retired from the window, and moved towards the table. For some minutes he appeared to stoop over a large map, which lay outstretched before him, and across which I could' see his finger moving rapidly.
Suddenly he stood erect, and in a voice which even now rings within my heart, said, “It must be so, Duroc; by any other route Bernadotte will be too late!”
What was the reply I know not, such terror now fell over me. It was the Emperor himself who spoke. It was he who the instant before was standing close beside me at the window; and thus, a second time in my life, did I become the unwilling eavesdropper of the man I most feared and respected of all the world. Before I could summon resolution to withdraw, Napoleon spoke again.