It was only natural if, after the first outburst of exulting joy at the overthrow of the common enemy, the Russians remembered Moscow and the glories of the German campaigns, and said sadly each to the other, “Ah, why were not we there?”
“I do not grudge the English their laurels,” said the captain of the Chevalier Guard. “They are a gallant race, and have been true throughout to the cause of Europe and of freedom. But why were not we at hand, instead of Blucher and those Prussians, to stand by them breast to breast?”
“We can only say, captain, it was the will of God,” answered Ivan. “He sent the English and the Prussians to Belgium, and kept us here. He knows—and all the world knows too—that the Czar was as ready for the work as Wellington or Blucher, and would have done it quite as well.”
The Czar himself recognized in this event the hand of God, and was satisfied. He had learned a lesson perhaps more difficult than that of being ready to do any work required of him—he was “ready not to do.” Without an afterthought of jealousy he saw the work he had begun completed by another, to whom was given the crowning glory of dealing the fatal blow to the enemy he had first grappled with and overthrown. The heart-felt joy with which he gave thanks for the victory of Waterloo was deepened by the thought that the blood of his Russians, shed so freely before in the cause of Europe, had now been mercifully spared.
Three weeks afterwards the allied sovereigns entered Paris once more, and Louis Dix-huit returned in their wake. A second time had the way to his capital been made safe for him by his “dear friends the enemies,” as he sarcastically and ungratefully styled his deliverers.
The Chevalier Guard attended their imperial master, and Ivan had the intense joy of a reunion with his young bride. His return was far more speedy than they had either of them dared to hope, and their hearts were filled with thankfulness. Madame de Salgues had removed from Versailles into the city, where she had taken a small house in a fashionable quarter, and Ivan obtained permission to reside with his friends.
Many things had happened during his absence; he had much to hear as well as to tell. The “Hundred Days” had left their impress upon all the household. Madame de Salgues told him she had come to Paris as much from a determination to defy “General Buonaparte” as from a sense of the insecurity of a town like Versailles in such troublous times. Henri, strange to say, had reaped advantage from the general confusion. When the power of Napoleon was re-established, Madame de Talmont deplored that the army, as a career for her son, was of course out of the question; and Henri thought this a favourable moment for broaching the ideas he had already uttered in confidence to Ivan. They were received much better than he had ventured to expect; and he was now, with his mother’s consent, studying under a celebrated architect. “One must sometimes sacrifice one’s feelings,” she said, “though never one’s principles. And, after all, what to do? The army is no longer a place for a man of honour; the bar you do not like; and to the Church there is at least one objection,—I do not wish the noble name of Talmont to die with you.”
Emile was now a resident under the roof of his grandmother; he had ceased to wear the uniform of the Ecole Polytechnique. With a few other students who made their imperialism very obtrusive during the Hundred Days, he had the honour of sharing in the downfall of his hero by being expelled at the return of the Bourbons. This ended not only his military and scientific education, but, at least for the present, his hopes of obtaining a commission.
A day or two after his arrival, Ivan inquired for M. de Sartines and his daughter, whom he had not yet seen.
“No doubt they will be here to-morrow,” Madame de Salgues answered. “They know you are with us. Besides, we are their near neighbours now, and they seldom leave us three days without a visit.”