“Ah, so soon!” said the wounded man, looking up; “a man of your word, Louis. And how is Rapp? Nothing in this fashion, I hope,” added he, pointing to his fractured limb with a sickly smile.
“No, no,” replied the surgeon. “But here is Marshal Murat come to inquire after you, from the Emperor.”
A flush of pride lit up St. Hilaire's features as he heard this, and he asked eagerly, “Where, where?”
“We must remove you, St. Hilaire,” said Murat, endeavoring to speak calmly, when it was evident his feelings were highly excited; “Louis says you must not remain here.”
“As you like, Marshal. What says his Majesty? Is the affair as decisive as he looked for?”
“Far more so. The allied army is destroyed; the campaign is ended.”
“Come, then, this is not so bad as I deemed it,” rejoined St. Hilaire, with a tone of almost gayety; “I can afford to be invalided if the Emperor has no further occasion for me.”
While these few words were interchanging, Louis had applied a tourniquet around the wounded limb, and having given the soldiers directions how they were to step, so as not to disturb or displace the shattered bones, he took his place beside the litter, and said,—
“We are ready now, General.”
They lifted the litter as he spoke, and moved slowly forward. Murat pressed the hand St. Hilaire extended to him without a word; and then, turning his head away, suffered the party to pass on.