The sun that shone upon that long day’s conflict was already near its setting when Ivan, with the rest of the Chevalier Guard, was still straining every nerve to drive the French from the Butte de Chaumont, an important height commanding the city. It is not enough to say that he fought with gallantry: all did that. He fought as one whose whole soul was in the work—who was conscious of no thought, no impulse, no resolve save that Paris must be won for the Czar that day. His horse was at a gallop; his red sabre was driving the fleeing French before him; the crest of the hill was reached; the city lay outspread beneath his feet;—when a well-aimed bullet grazed the top of his silver cuirass, and passed through his right shoulder. Faint and dizzy, he still pressed on. To be stopped now would be intolerable. But in another moment his senses reeled; all things grew dim about him. He had barely time to thrust the colours which he held into the hand of the comrade nearest him; then, after clutching vainly at the mane of his horse, he found himself lying under its hoofs. Immeasurably bitter was the thrill of disappointment that flashed through him ere consciousness departed. “I shall not enter Paris with my Czar,” he murmured with his failing voice. After that he knew nothing.
When he came to himself he was still lying on the ground where he had fallen. Blood was flowing freely from the wound in his shoulder, but no hoof of horse had grazed him as he lay—all had passed him by, sparing the fallen, as those noble and gentle creatures so often do. He heard voices near him, and to his joy they spoke in Russian. Then the Butte de Chaumont was theirs yet! He raised himself with an effort, and looked about him. It was night, but lights were blazing all around. A party of artillery occupied the height which he and his comrades had won for them, and the gunners were standing, match in hand, beside their loaded pieces. It was evident that the word of command to fire upon the city that lay outspread beneath them was expected every instant. Fierce and eager was the excitement. The passionate, exulting anticipation which kindled every eye and throbbed in every heart resounded on all sides in “houras” and “vivas,” while from lip to lip along the ranks the cry was echoed and re-echoed, “Father Paris, you shall pay for Mother Moscow!”
A voice near Ivan—a voice that Ivan knew—exclaimed, in tones of deepest emotion, “Thank God and the saints, we have our revenge this night for our beautiful and holy city, laid in ashes—ay, and for our dead, our murdered! Anna Popovna, in thy name I send the messenger of Death into the homes of the infidel Nyemtzi.”
“Michael! Michael Ivanovitch!” Ivan called in a faint and quivering voice.
Fortunately Michael heard the sound, and moved towards the spot whence it came. “Great St. Nicholas!” exclaimed he, “it is Barrinka!”
A good soldier always knows what to do for a wounded comrade. Water, mixed with a little brandy, was quickly borne to the lips of Ivan; and gladly would Michael have bound the wound himself, only he thought it right to yield the privilege to some one who had the use of both his hands. “But what shall we do for linen?” asked the gunner who undertook the surgeon’s office.
“Here is the very thing we want!” cried Michael, delightedly producing from his knapsack a clean white cambric handkerchief.
“A token from some fair one, I suppose,” said his comrade with a laugh, as he took it from his hand.
“A token from some one harder to find,” returned Michael. “From a Frenchman with a notion of justice and mercy in his head.”
“The Frenchmen shall learn what justice is before the dawn of to-morrow’s sun,” said the gunner with a dark and angry look.