At last, in the Episcopal Palace, where head-quarters had been hurriedly established, Louis found the man he sought, the officer in charge of the arrangements for despatching prisoners into Russia and to Siberia. He was a grizzled warrior of the old school, speaking only French and Russian. He was tired out and hungry, but he listened to Louis' story.
“There is the list,” he said, “it is more or less complete. Many have called themselves officers who never held a commission from the Emperor Napoleon. But we have done what we can to sort them out.”
So Louis sat down in the dimly lighted room and deciphered the names of those officers who had been left behind, detained by illness or wounds or the lack of spirit to persevere.
“You understand,” said the Russian, returning to his work, “I cannot afford the time to help you. We have twenty-five thousand prisoners to feed and keep alive.”
“Yes—I understand,” answered Louis, who had the seaman's way of making himself a part of his surroundings.
The old colonel glanced at him across the table with a grim smile.
“The Emperor,” he said, “was sitting in that chair an hour ago. He may come back at any moment.”
“Ah!” said Louis, following the written lines with a pencil.
But no interruption came, and at last the list was finished. Charles was not among the officers taken prisoner at Vilna.
“Well?” inquired the Russian, without looking up.