"Well, sire," said St. Eustache, drawing, a long breath, "as the colonel and I were charging side by side, cutting right and left, separated from our men by the superior speed of our horses, a Russian officer wheeled and shot the colonel from his saddle."
"That was how it happened, Lioncourt," said the emperor. "Now go on. Afterwards——"
"When I came to my senses, sire," resumed Lioncourt, gloomily, "I found myself in the hands of some Austrian peasants. I had been plundered of my epaulets and uniform, and they took me for a common soldier. But they carried me to their cottage, and dressed my wound, and eventually I got well."
"But where were you wounded, colonel?" asked the emperor.
"A pistol ball had entered behind my left shoulder, and came out by my collar bone."
"Behind your left shoulder!" cried Napoleon. "And yet you were facing the enemy. How was that?"
"Because," said the colonel, sternly, "a Frenchman, a soldier, an officer, a disappointed rival, took that opportunity of assassinating me, and shot me with his own hostler pistol."
"His name!" shouted the emperor, quivering with passion, "his name; do you know him?"
"Well.—It was Lieutenant Colonel St. Eustache!"
All eyes were turned on St. Eustache. His knees knocked together, his eyes were fixed, cold drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. But in all that circle of indignant eyes, the detected criminal saw only the eagle orbs of the emperor, that pierced to his very soul.