Why should I dwell on a career of disaster, or linger on the expiring moments of a mighty Empire? Of what avail now are the reinforcements which arrived to our aid,—the veteran legions of the Peninsula? The cry is ever, “Too late! too late!” Dreadful words, heard at every moment! sad omens of an army devoted and despairing!
From Brienne we retreat to Troyes; from thence to Bar-sur-Aube,—ever nearer and nearer to that capital to which the Allies tend with wild shouts of triumph. On the last day of February our headquarters are at Nogent, not thirty leagues from Paris,—Nogent, with the great forest of Fontainebleau on its left; and Meaux, the ancient bishopric of the Monarchy, on its right; and behind that screen, Paris!
Leaving Bourmont in command of the line which holds the Austrians in check, the Emperor himself hastens to oppose Blücher,—the most intrepid and the most daring of all his enemies. A cross-march in the depth of winter, with the ground covered with half-frozen snow, will bring him on the flank of the Prussian army. It is dared! Dangers and difficulties beset every step; the artillery are almost lost, the cavalry exhausted. But the cry of “The enemy!” rouses every energy: they debouch on the plain of Champ-Aubert, to fall on the moving column of the Russians under Alsufief. Glorious stroke of fate! Victory again caresses the spoiled child of fortune: the enemy is routed, and retires on Montmirail and Châlons. The advanced army of the Prussians hear the cannonade, and fall back to support the Allies on Montmirail. But the Emperor already awaits them with the battalions of the Old Guard, and another great battle ends in victory. Areola and Rivoli were again remembered, and recalled by victories not less glorious; and once more hope returned to the ranks it seemed to have quitted forever. Another dreadful blow is aimed at Blucher's columns; Marmont attacks them at Vaux-Champs, and the army of Silesia falls back beaten.
And now the Emperor hastens towards Nogent, where he has left Bourmont in front of the Austrians. “Too late! too late!” is again the cry,—the columns of Oudinot and Victor are already in retreat. Schwartzenberg, with a force triple their own, advances on the plains of the Seine; the Cossacks bivouac in the forest of Fontainebleau. Staff-officers hurry onward with the news that the Emperor is approaching; the victorious army which had subdued Blucher is on the march, reinforced by the veteran cavalry of Spain and the tried legions of the Peninsula. They halt, and form in battle. The Allies arrest their steps at Nangis, and again are beaten: Nangis becomes another name of glory to the ears of Frenchmen.
Let me rest one instant in this rapid recital of a week whose great deeds not even Napoleon's life can show the equal of,—the last flash of the lamp of glory ere it darkened forever.
Three days had elapsed from the sad hour in which I laid my dearest friend in his grave, ere I opened the locket I had taken from his bosom. The wild work of war mingled its mad excitement in my brain with thoughts of deep sorrow; and I lived in a kind of fevered dream, and hurried from the affliction which beset me into the torrent of danger.
The gambler who cares not to win rarely loses, so he that seeks death in battle comes unscathed through every danger. Each day I threw myself headlong into some post where escape seemed scarcely possible; but recklessness has its own armor of safety. On the field of Montmirail I was reported to the Emperor; and for an attack on the Austrian rearguard at Melun made colonel of a cuirassier regiment on the field of battle. Such promotions rained on every side: hundreds were falling each day; many regiments were commanded by officers of twenty-three or twenty-four years of age. Few expected to carry their new epaulettes beyond the engagement they gained them in; none believed the Empire itself could survive the struggle. Each played for a mighty stake; few cared to outlive the game itself. The Emperor showered down favors on the heads which each battlefield laid low.
It was on the return from Melun I first opened the locket, which I continued to wear around my neck. In the full expansion of a momentary triumph to see myself at the head of a regiment, I thought of him who would have participated in my pride. I was sitting in the doorway of a little cabaret on the roadside, my squadrons picketed around me, for a brief halt; and as my thoughts recurred to the brave D'Auvergne, I withdrew the locket from my bosom. It was a small oval case of gold, opening by a spring. I touched this, and as I did so, the locket sprang open, and displayed before me a miniature of Marie de Meudon. Yes! beautiful as I had seen her in the forest of Versailles: her dark hair clustering around her noble brow,—and her eyes, so full of tender loveliness, shadowed by their deep fringes,—were there as I remembered them; the lips were half parted, as though the artist had caught the speaking expression,—and as-I gazed, I could fancy that voice, so musically sweet, still ringing in my ears. I could not look on it enough: the features recalled the scenes when first I met her; and the strong current of love, against which so long I struggled and contended, flowed on with tenfold force once more. Should we ever meet again,—and how? were the questions which rushed to my mind, and to which hope and fear dictated the replies.
The locket was a present from the Empress to the general,—at least, so I interpreted an inscription on the back; and this—shall I confess it?—brought pleasure to my heart. Like one whose bosom bore some wondrous amulet, some charm against the approach of danger, I now rode at the head of my gallant band. Life had grown dearer to me, without death becoming more dreaded. Her image next my heart made me feel as if I should combat beneath her very eyes, and I burned to acquit myself as became one who loved her. A wild, half frantic joy animated me as I went, and was caught by the gay companions around me.
At midnight a despatch reached me, ordering me to hasten forward by a forced march to Montereau, the bridge of which town was a post of the greatest importance, and must be held against the Austrians till Victor could come up. We lost not a moment. It was a calm frosty night, with a bright moon, and we hastened along without halting. About an hour before daybreak we were met by a cavalry patrol, who informed us that Gérard and Victor had both arrived, but too late: Montereau was held by the Wurtemberg troops, who garrisoned the village, and defended the bridge with a strong force of artillery; twice the French troops had been beaten back with tremendous loss, and all looked for the morrow to renew the encounter. We continued our journey; and, as the sun was rising, discovered, at a distance on the road beside the river, the mass of an infantry column: it was the Emperor himself, come up with the Guard, to attack the position.