He paused, out of breath with the rapidity of his utterance. Colonel Lioncourt waited respectfully till he should recommence.
"Colonel," he said, at last, in a tone of sadness, a melancholy shade passing over his fine features, "they have described me as a sanguinary monster. History will do me justice. History will attest that I never drew the sword without just cause—that I returned it to its scabbard on the earliest opportunity. Not on my soul the guilt of slaughtered thousands, of villages burned, of peasants driven from their homes, of fields ravaged, of women widowed, and children orphaned. My whole soul yearns for peace. I would build my true greatness on the promulgation of just laws, the culture of religion and intellect, the triumphs of agriculture, and the arts of peace. But I must obey my destiny. Europe must be ploughed by the sword. The struggle is between civilization and barbarism, freedom and despotism, the Frank and the Cossack. But I prate too long. Colonel, I sent for you to pronounce a hard sentence. Your regiment of hussars is already under arms. You must march to-night—instantly."
"Sire," said Lioncourt, with a sigh. "This news will kill my poor wife."
"Josephine shall console her," said the emperor. "I would have informed you earlier, but St. Eustache, your lieutenant colonel, whom I now see talking with madame, advised me not to do so."
"I thank him," muttered Lioncourt bitterly.
"You have no time to lose. I counsel you to leave the presence quietly. Let your wife learn that you have marched by a letter. Better that than the agony of parting. I know something of human, and particularly feminine, nature. Adieu, colonel. Courage and good fortune."
And so saying, the emperor glided easily back to the circle he had left. Lioncourt's brain reeled under the blow he had received. He gazed upon his wife as she stood radiant, beautiful, and unsuspicious, under a glittering chandelier, with the same feelings with which a man takes his last look of the shore as he sinks forever in the treacherous wave. In another moment he was gone. The sentries presented arms as he passed out of the palace. His orderly was in the court yard holding his charger by the bridle. The colonel threw himself into the saddle, and was soon at the head of the regiment. The trumpets and kettledrums were mute—for such were the general orders and the regiment rode out of the city in silence, broken only by the heavy tramping of the horses' hoofs, and the clanking of scabbards rebounding from their flanks. As they passed out of one of the gates, the lieutenant colonel, St. Eustache, joined the column at a gallop, and reported to his commander.
St. Eustache had been a lover of Leonide Lasalle, had proposed for her hand, and been rejected. Still, he had not utterly ceased to love her, but his desire of possession was now mingled with a thirst of vengeance. He both hated and loved the beautiful Leonide, while he regarded his fortunate rival and commanding officer with feelings of unmitigated hatred. Yet he had art enough to conceal his guilty feelings and guilty projects. While he rode beside the colonel, his thoughts ran somewhat in this vein:—
"Well, at least I have succeeded in marring their joy. Lioncourt's triumph over me was short lived. He may never see his bride again. He is venturesome and rash. We have sharp work before us, or I'm very much mistaken, and Colonel Eugene Lioncourt may figure in the list of killed in the first general engagement. Then I renew my suit, and if Leonide again reject me, there's no virtue in determination."
While the colonel's regiment was slowly pursuing its way, the festivities at the Tuileries were drawing to a close. Madame Lioncourt wondered very much at the absence of her husband, and still more so when the guests began to depart, and he did not reappear to escort her to her carriage. It was then that the empress honored her with an interview, and, with tears in her beautiful eyes, informed her of her husband's march in obedience to orders. The poor lady bore bravely up against the effect of this intelligence so long as she was in the presence of the emperor and empress; but when alone in her carriage, on her way to her now solitary home, she burst into a flood of tears, and it seemed as if her very heart were breaking. The next morning brought a short but kind note from her husband. It was overflowing with affection and full of hope. The campaign, conducted by Napoleon's genius, he thought, could not fail to be brief, and he should return with new laurels, to lay them at the feet of his lovely bride. This little note was treasured up by Leonide as if it had been the relic of a saint, and its words of love and promise cheered her day after day in the absence of her husband.