“His privilege of the élite is withdrawn, sir,” said an old general officer. “He must leave Paris to join his regiment in twenty-four hours.”
“Poor fellow!” muttered I, half aloud, when a savage frown from the veteran officer corrected my words.
“What, sir!” said he, in a low voice, where every word was thickened to a guttural sound—“what, sir! is the court of the Tuileries no more than a canteen or a bivouac? Pardieu! if it was not for his laced jacket he had been degraded to the ranks; ay, and deserved it too!”
The coarse accents and underbred tone of the speaker showed me at once that it was one of the old generals of the Republican army, who never could endure the descendants of aristocratic families in the service, and who were too willing always to attribute to insolence and premeditated affront even the slightest breaches of military etiquette.
Meanwhile the Emperor mounted, and accompanied by the officers of his staff, rode forward towards the Champs Élysées, while all of lesser note followed at a distance. From the garden of the Tuileries to the Barrière de l'Étoile the troops were ranged in four lines, the cavalry of the Guard and the artillery forming the ranks along the road by which the convoy must pass. It was a bright day, with a clear, frosty atmosphere and a blue sky, and well suited the brilliant spectacle.
Scarcely had the Emperor issued from the Tuileries, when ten thousand shouts of “Vive l'Empereur!” rent the air; the cannon of the Invalides thundered forth at the same moment; and the crash of the military bands added their clangor to the sounds of joy. He rode slowly along the line, stopping frequently to speak with some of the soldiers, and giving orders to his suite concerning them. Of the officers in his staff that day, the greater number had been wounded at Austerlitz, and still bore the traces of their injuries. Rapp displayed a tremendous scar from a sabre across his cheek; Sebastiani wore his sword-arm in a sling; and Friant, unable to mount his horse, followed the Emperor on foot, leaning on a stick, and walking with great difficulty. The sight of these brave men, whose devotion to Napoleon had been proved on so many battlefields, added to the interest of the scene, and tended to excite popular enthusiasm to its utmost. But on Napoleon still all eyes were bent. The general who led their armies to victory, the monarch who raised France to the proudest place among the nations, was there, within a few paces of them. Each word he spoke was sinking deeply into some heart, prouder of that moment than of rank or riches.
So slow was the Emperor's progress along the ranks that it was near three o'clock before he had arrived at the extremity of the line. The cavalry were now ordered to form in squadrons, and move past in close order. While this movement was effecting, a cannon-shot at the barrière announced the approach of the convoy. The cavalry were halted in line once more, and the same moment the first wagon of the train appeared above the summit of the hill. So secretly had the whole been managed that none, save the officers of the various staffs, knew what was coming. While each look was turned, then, towards the barrière in astonishment, gradually the wagon rolled on, another followed, and another: these were, however, but the ambulances of the hospitals. And now the wounded themselves came in sight,—a white flag, that well-known signal, waving in front of each wagon, while a guard of honor, consisting of picked men of the different regiments, rode at either side.
One loud cheer—a shout echoed back from the Tuileries itself—rang out, as the soldiers saw their brave companions restored to them once more. With that impulse which, even in discipline, French soldiers never forget, the men rushed forward to the wagons, and in a moment officers and men were in the arms of their comrades. What a scene it was to see the poor and wasted forms, mangled by shot and maimed of limb, brightening up again as home and friends surrounded them,—to hear their faint voices mingle with the questions for this one or for that, while the fate of some brave fellow met but one word in elegy!
On they passed,—a sad train, but full of glorious memories. There were the grenadiers of Oudinot, who carried the Russian centre; eleven wagons were filled with their wounded. Here come the voltigeurs of Bernadotte's brigade; see how the fellows preserve their ancient repute, cheering and laughing,—ever the same, whether roistering at midnight in the Faubourg St. Antoine or rushing madly upon the ranks of the enemy! There are the dragoons of Nansouty, who charged the Imperial Guard of Russia; see the proud line that floats on their banner, “All wounded by the sabre!” And here come the cuirassiers of the Guard, with a detachment of their own as escort; how splendidly they look in the bright sun, and how proudly they come!
As I looked, the Emperor rode forward, bareheaded, his whole staff uncovered. “Chapeau bas, Messieurs!” said he, in a loud voice. “Honor to the brave in misfortune!”