“I thought, Sire,” added I, “that your Majesty was many a league distant with the army—”
“There is no army, sir,” interrupted he, with a rapid gesture of his hand; “to-morrow there will be no Emperor. Go, sir; go, while it is yet the time. Offer your sword and your services where so many others, more exalted than yourself, have done. This is the day of desertion; see that you take advantage of it.”
“Had my name and rank been less humble, they would have assured your Majesty how little I merited this reproach.”
“I am sorry to have offended you,” replied he, in a voice of inexpressible softness. “You led the assault at Montereau? I remember you now. I should have given you your brigade, had I—” He stopped here suddenly, while an expression of suffering passed across his pale features; he rallied from it, however, in an instant, and resumed, “I should have known you earlier; it is too late! Adieu!”
He inclined his head slightly as he spoke, and extended his hand. I pressed it fervently to my lips, and would have spoken, but I could not. The moment after he was gone.
It is too late! too late!—the same terrible words which were uttered beneath the blackened walls of Moscow; repeated at every new disaster of that dreadful retreat; now spoken by him whose fortune they predicted. Too late!—the exclamation of the proud marshal, harassed by unsuccessful efforts to avert the destiny he saw inevitable. Too late!—the cry of the wearied soldier. Too late!—the fatal expression of the Czar when the brave and faithful Macdonald urged the succession of the King of Rome and the regency of the Empress.
Wearied with a wakeful night, I fell into a slumber towards morning, when I started suddenly at the roll of drums in the court beneath. In an instant I was at my window. What was my astonishment to perceive that the courtyard was filled with troops! The Grenadiers of the Guard were ranged in order of battle, with several squadrons of the chasseurs and the horse artillery; while a staff of general officers stood in the midst, among whom I recognized Belliard, Montesquieu, and Turenne,—great names, and worthy to be recorded for an act of faithful devotion. The Duc de Bassano was there too, in deep mourning; his pale and careworn face attesting the grief within his heart.
The roll of the drums continued; the deep, unbroken murmur of the salute went on from one end of the line to the other. It ceased; and ere I could question the reason, the various staff-officers became uncovered, and stood in attitudes of respectful attention, and the Emperor himself slowly, step by step, descended the wide stair of the “Cheval Blanc,”—as the grand terrace was styled,—and advanced towards the troops. At the same instant the whole line presented arms, and the drums beat the salute. They ceased, and Napoleon raised his hand to command silence, and throughout that crowded mass not a whisper was heard.