He waved his hand in sign for me to withdraw, and overwhelmed with confusion, I bowed and left the room. Nor was it till the door closed behind me that I felt how cruelly and unjustly I had been treated; then suddenly the blood rushed to my face and temples, my head seemed as if it would burst at either side, and forgetting every circumstance of place and condition, I seized the handle of the door and wrenched it open.
“Marshal,” said I, with the fearlessness of one resolved at any risk to vindicate his character, “I know nothing of this letter; I have not read one line of it. I have no further intimacy with the writer than an officer has with his comrade; but if I am to be the subject of espionage to the police,—if my chance acquaintances in the world are to be matter of charges against my fealty and honor,—if I, who have nothing but my sword and my epaulette—”
When I had got thus far I saw the marshal's face turn deadly pale, while the officer at the table made a hurried sign to me with his finger to be silent. The door closed nearly at the same instant, and I turned my head round, and there stood the Emperor. The figure is still before me; he was standing still, his hands behind his back, and his low chapeau deeply pressed upon his brows. His gray frock was open, and looked as if disordered from haste.
“What is this?” said he, in that hissing tone he always assumed when in moments of passion,—“what is this? Are we in the bureau of a minister? or is it the salle de police? Who are you, sir?”
It was not until the question had been repeated that I found courage to reply. But he waited not for my answer, as, snatching the open letter from my fingers, he resumed,—
“It is not thus, sir, you should come here. Your petition or memorial— Ha! parbleu! what is this?”
At the instant his eyes fell upon the writing, and as suddenly his face grew almost livid. With the rapidity of lightning he seemed to peruse the lines. Then waving his hand, he motioned towards the door, and muttered,—“Wait without!”
Like one awaking from a dreadful dream, I stood, endeavoring to recall my faculties, and assure myself how much there might be of reality in my wandering fancies, when I perceived that a portion of the letter remained between my fingers as the Emperor snatched it from my hand.
A half-finished sentence was all I could make out; but its tone made me tremble for what the rest of the epistle might contain:—
“Surpassed themselves, of course, my dear Burke; and so has the Emperor too. It remained for the campaign in Prussia to prove that one hundred and eighty-five thousand prisoners can be taken from an army numbering one hundred and fifty-four thousand men. As to Davoust, who really had all the fighting, though he wrote no bulletin, all Paris feels—”