“And so they laid them in the same grave, and the same fusillade gave the last honors to both.”
“Your story has affected my patient overmuch, General,” said the doctor; “you must leave him to himself for some time.”
CHAPTER XL. FONTAINEBLEAU
An order from Berthier, written at the command of the Emperor, admitted me into the ancient Palace of Fontainebleau, where I lay for upwards of two months under my wound. Twice had fever nearly brought me to the grave; but youth and unimpaired health succored me, and I rallied through all. A surgeon of the staff accompanied me, and by his kind companionship, not less than by his skill, did I recover from an illness where sorrow had made an iron inroad not less deep than disease.
In my little chamber, which looked out upon the courtyard of the Palace, I passed my days, thinking over the past and all its vicissitudes. Each day we learned some intelligence either from the seat of war or from Paris: defeat in one, treason and disaffection in the other, were rapidly hastening the downfall of the mightiest Empire the genius of man had ever constructed. Champ-Aubert, Montmirail, and Montereau, great victories as they were, retarded not the current of events. “The week of glory” brought not hope to a cause predestined to ruin.
It was the latter end of March. For some days previous the surgeon had left me to visit an outpost ambulance near Melun, and I was alone. My strength, however, enabled me to sit up at my window; and even in this slight pleasure my wearied senses found enjoyment, after the tedious hours of a sickbed. The evening was calm, and for the season mild and summerlike. The shrubs were putting forth their first leaves, and around the marble fountains the spring flowers were already showing signs of blossom. The setting sun made the tall shadows of the ancient beech-trees stretch across the wide court, where all was still as at midnight. No inhabitant of the Palace was about; not a servant moved, not a footstep was heard.
It was a moment of such perfect stillness as leads the mind to reverie; and my thoughts wandered away to that distant time when gay cavaliers and stately dames trod those spacious terraces,—when tales of chivalry and love mingled with the plashing sounds of those bright fountains, and the fair moon looked down on more lovely forms than even those graceful marbles around. I fancied the time when the horn of the chasseur was heard-echoing through those vast courts, its last notes lost in the merry voices of the cortege round the monarch. And then I called up the brilliant group, with caracoling steeds and gay housings, proudly advancing up that great avenue to the royal entrance, and pictured the ancient ceremonial that awaited his coming,—the descendant of a long line of kings. The frank and kingly Francis, the valiant Henry the Fourth, the “Grand Monarch” himself,—all passed in review before my mind as once they lived, and moved, and spoke in that stately pile.
The sun had set: the mingled shadows threw their gloom over the wide court, and one wing of the Palace was in' deep shade, when suddenly I heard the roll of wheels and the tramp of horses on the distant road. I listened attentively. They were coming near; I could hear the tread of many together; and my practised ear could detect the clank of dragoons, as their sabres and sabretasches jingled against the horses' flanks. “Some hurried news from the Emperor,” thought I; “perhaps some marshal wounded, and about to be conveyed to the Palace.” The same instant the guard at the distant entrance beat to arms, and an equipage drawn by six horses dashed in at full gallop; a second followed as fast, with a peloton of dragoons at the side. My anxiety increased. “What if it were the Emperor himself!” thought I. But as the idea flashed across me, it yielded at once on seeing that the carriages did not draw up at the grand stair, but passed on to a low and private door at the distant wing of the Palace.
The bustle of the cortege arriving was but a moment's work. The carriages moved rapidly away, the dragoons disappeared, and all was as still as before, leaving me to ponder over the whole, and actually ask myself could it have been reality? I opened my door to listen; but not a sound awoke the echo of the long corridors. One could have fancied that no living thing was beneath that wide roof, so silent was all around.