“Mille tonnerres! what are you saying?” broke in the little man, to the grim old soldier who was relating this. “You know nothing of 'L'Homme Rouge,'—not a word; how should you? But I served in the Twenty-second of the Line, old Mongoton's corps; the 'Faubourg Devils,' as they were called. He knew him well; it was 'L'Homme Rouge' had him shot for treason at Cairo. I was one of the company drawn for his execution; and when he knelt down on the grass, he held up his hand this way, and cried out,—
“'Voltigeurs of the Line, hear me! You have all known me many years; you have seen whether I could face the enemy like a man; and you can tell whether I cared for the heaviest charge that ever shook a square. You know, also, whether I was true to our general. Well, it is “L'Homme Rouge” who has brought me to this. And now: Carry arms!—all together! Come, mes enfants! try it again: Carry arms! (ay, that's better) present arms! fire!'
“Morbleu! the word was not well out when he was dead; and there, through the smoke, as plain as I see you now, I saw the figure of a little fellow, dressed in scarlet,—feather and boots all the same! He was standing over the corpse, and threatening it with his hands. And that,” said he, in a solemn voice, “that was 'L'Homme Rouge!'”
This anecdote was conclusive. There was no gainsaying the assertions of a man who had, with his own eyes, seen the celebrated “Red Man;” and from that instant he enjoyed a decided monopoly of everything that concerned his private history.
According to the sergeant-major's version,—and who could venture to contradict him?—“L'Homme Rouge” was not the confidential adviser and friendly counsellor of the Emperor; but, on the contrary, his evil genius, perpetually employed in thwarting his plans and opposing his views. Each seemed to have his hour of triumph alternately. Now it was the Bed Man, now Napoleon, who stood in the ascendant. Fortune for a long period had been constant to the Emperor, and victory crowned every battle. This had, it seemed, greatly chagrined “L'Homme Bouge,” who for years past had not been seen nor heard of. The last tradition of him was a story told by one of the sentinels on guard at the general's quarters at Mont Tabor.
It was midnight: all was still and silent in the camp. The soldiers slept as men sleep before a battle, when the old grenadier who walked his short post before General Bonaparte's tent heard a quick tread approaching him. “Qui vive?” cried he; but there was no reply. “Qui vive?” called the sentry once more; but as he did so he leaped backwards and brought his musket to the charge, for just then something brushed close by him and entered the tent.
For a moment or two he doubted what should be done. Should he turn out the guard? It was only to be laughed at; that would never do. But what if it really were somebody who had penetrated to the general's quarters? As this thought struck him, he crept up close to the tent; and there, true enough, he heard the voices of two persons speaking.
“Ah! thou here?” said Bonaparte. “I scarce expected to see thee so far from France!”
“Alas!” said the other, with a deep sigh, “what land is now open to me, or whither shall I fly to? I took refuge in Brussels; well, what should I see one morning, but the tall shakos of your grenadiers coming up the steep street. I fled to Holland; you were there the day after. 'Come,' thought I, 'he's moving northwards; I'll try the other extreme.' So I started for the Swiss. Sacrebleu! the roll of your confounded drums resounded through every valley. I reached the banks of the Po; your troops were there the same evening. I pushed for Rome; they were preparing your quarters, which you occupied that night. Away, then, I start once more; I cross mountains and rivers and seas, and gain the desert at last. I thank my fortune that there are a thousand leagues between us; and here you are now. For pity's sake, show me, on that map of the world, one little spot you don't want to conquer, and let me live there in peace, and be sure never to meet you more.”
Bonaparte did not speak for some minutes, and it seemed as though he were intently considering the request of “L'Homme Rouge.”