“There shall be no more snow,
No weary, wandering feet.”
It was one of the early days of a genuine Russian winter. The vast and desolate plain between Moscow and Smolensko was white with snow; bitter winds thick with falling flakes were sweeping over it; and the wintry sun struggled in vain to pierce a dense frosty fog. A regiment of French infantry, weary, dispirited, and famishing with hunger, was toiling through the snow-drifts. Already the ranks were thinned terribly, while the ghastly faces and shrunken limbs of the survivors told the story of their sufferings. All the soldier’s pride in his appearance, in the brightness of his arms, in the trim perfection of his accoutrements, had vanished long ago; half the disorderly crowd had thrown away the muskets they were too weak to carry, nor was a dress to be seen that deserved the name of a uniform. Any warm garment found amongst the spoils of Moscow was made to do duty as an overcoat, without regard to the sex of its original wearer. Our old friend Seppel wore a lady’s fur-lined dressing-gown, whilst the practical Féron contented himself with a sheep-skin shuba which had once enveloped the ample form of a Russian coachman. But no fur was warm enough to keep the bitter cold of that wintry day from the weakened frames of men whose only food since leaving Moscow had been a few handfuls of rye soaked in water or a little horse-flesh.
Clinging to the arm of Féron was a form slight and worn, and evidently ready to sink with fatigue. “Peste! Mind what you are about there!” cried Féron sharply, as Henri de Talmont stumbled and sank to his knees in a snow-drift a little deeper than usual. Then, pulling him up again by main force and setting him on his feet—“Can’t you see where you are going?” he asked.
“No, I cannot see,” answered Henri in a weary voice. “Féron, you have been very good to me. But it is no use. You must let me go.”
“I shall do no such thing. Here, my boy, take a pull at this;” and he put a flask filled with vodka to the lips of his friend. “Now you can see a little better,” he said with a laugh, as the stimulant brought a momentary colour to the pale cheek of Henri. “Can’t you hear too? Listen! there are wheels coming near us, and horse-hoofs. God grant it may be stores of some kind, and if so”—Féron paused a moment and set his teeth resolutely—“the Old Guard themselves, with the Emperor at their head, shall not keep them from us.”
The wheels were already quite close, else under the circumstances they could not have heard them at all. A carriage drawn by four horses, and attended by outriders, came dashing by. It had only one occupant, a general of division, wrapped from head to foot in rich furs; but every available spot was crammed with packages and bottles. Some of the men sprang towards it, and clinging to the back or the sides, begged in piteous accents for bread, meat, spirits, even a little tobacco—anything “Monsieur le Général” would be good enough to spare them. The coachman and the outriders had to use their whips pretty freely to get rid of them. It was only surprising that they did not take what they wanted by force; but either the lack of courage and mutual understanding, or perhaps some remains of military discipline, prevented an outbreak of open violence.
“Fools for their pains!” said Féron bitterly. “They might know by this time that the general never has anything to spare for the soldier. But I am glad he is gone, for the sight of his luxuries made me mad. May his horses break their knees in the next snow-drift! Sure to do it before long. That’s one comfort!”
“And then,” said a comrade, “perhaps we may overtake him, and get horses, stores, and all. What a supper we should have!”
“Ay,” observed another, “his horses are very unlike the last we supped upon. Poor brutes! they were little more than skin and bone.”