Henri’s cry of distress made all the sick men in the ward raise their heads.
“What is the matter?” Ivan asked compassionately.
“The Emperor is going!” Henri said, or rather sobbed, for so weak was he that he could not restrain his tears.
“You need not be afraid that will change anything, my poor friend. He has made arrangements for the safety and the comfort of all the prisoners. Henceforth they will want for nothing.”
“I was not afraid of wanting food or shelter,” Henri said. “But, M. le Garde, when I lay in that horrible prison, dying in black despair, it was his voice called me back from the gates of the grave, and showed me what the mercy of God was like. I would give half the little life left in me to hear that voice yet once again.” After a pause he added, with an effort to control himself, “Still, he stayed among us longer than we could have dared to hope. Is he going home now?”
Ivan shook his head. “His work is not half done yet; nor ours,” he said.
“What will you fight for now?” asked Henri with a sad smile. “For vengeance?”
“For peace,” returned Ivan. “Shall I tell you what the Czar says about that? He speaks without anger or bitterness of your Emperor.”
“Call him not mine,” Henri interrupted, with a flush on his pale cheek. “Mine he never was. I am a Royalist.”
“Well, then, of Napoleon. ‘What a brilliant career,’ said the Czar, ‘that man might have run! He could have given peace to Europe—he could have done it; and he has not. Now the charm is broken.’”