"And you, Marmont," cried the Emperor, transfixing him in turn with a reproachful glance.
Both marshals stepped back abashed.
"Besides," said the Emperor gloomily, "it is already too late. I have reserved the best for the last," he said with grim irony. "The courier who has just departed is from Caulaincourt." He lifted the last dispatch, which he had torn open a moment or two since. He shook it in the air, crushed it in his hand, laughed, and those who heard him laugh shuddered.
"What does the Duke of Vicenza say, Sire?" chimed in another marshal.
"It is you, Berthier," said the Emperor. "You, at least, do not advise surrender?"
"Not yet, Sire."
"But when?" asked Napoleon quickly. Without waiting for an answer to his question, he continued: "The allies now graciously offer us—think of it, gentlemen—the limits of 1791."
"Impossible!" cried a big red-headed marshal.
"They demand it, Prince of the Moskowa," answered the Emperor, addressing Marshal Ney.
"But it's incredible, Sire."