“What a hurry you were in! Bring him to me,” said the voice of authority.
There was no need to bring him. Henri himself turned gladly, though very feebly, towards this new arbiter of his fate. But when he saw him, he started in surprise. It is true that part of his uniform was concealed by a long cloak lined with fur, but his great hairy cap, and his white waistcoat and gaiters, showed him to be one of the Old Guard, the very élite of the French army. These veterans were objects of envy to all their fellow-soldiers; for while the rest had been treated with cruel neglect and indifference, receiving between Moscow and Smolensko absolutely no rations whatever, the Old Guard were well and carefully fed, and supplied abundantly with wine or spirits. The reason was obvious. Upon them devolved a duty of paramount importance, that of guarding the person of Napoleon. Therefore, when the bulk of the army, demoralized by its sufferings, had broken up into fragments, the Old Guard was still able to keep rank, to present a noble appearance, and oppose a firm front to the enemy. Hence the surprise of Henri at finding one of its number amongst a group of wretched-looking stragglers belonging to various regiments.
Meanwhile the Guardsman surveyed him with a critical eye. “Why, this is only a slip of a lad, un petit jeune homme,” he said. “He looks half dead already. Mes enfants, he shall stay with us.”
Faint tones of remonstrance began to make themselves heard, but they were silenced in a very summary fashion. The Guardsman laid his bronzed hand, hard as iron, upon the shoulder of Henri. “Sacre!” he cried. “You shall take him and me together. Both of us, or neither!”
This was decisive. The poor, abject, half-starved wretches knew their master; they felt their lives depended upon his care and guidance; and they obeyed him as, in a time of need, the incapable usually obey any capable person who undertakes to direct them. Room was made for Henri beside the fire, and the very man who had flung the brand after him a few minutes before now volunteered to chafe one of his ears, which showed symptoms of being frozen.
Supper was served, consisting of a piece of roasted horse-flesh without bread or salt, and a very small quantity of rum, carefully measured out to each member of the party, and mixed with snow-water. Then every man crept as close to the fire as he could, wrapped about him what garments he had, and tried to sleep; every man, that is to say, except the Guard, who, explaining to Henri that some one must always watch, and that the first watch of the night devolved upon him, lit his pipe with a meditative air, and seated himself beside the fire.
Weary as Henri was, he could not help asking one or two questions. “Garde,” he said, “do you know where we are?”
“Somewhere on the way to Smolensko, which, if we live, we may reach perhaps in two days or three.”
“Shall we find our regiments again, do you think?”
“I cannot answer for yours, my boy; the new ones seem to be melting like snow-flakes. The Old Guard,” he added with a flash of pride, “is always to be found, whether by friend or foe.”