The Eagle of the Empire | Page 5

of bearers of
evil tidings as Napoleon on that winter night.

The Emperor's face was pale always, but there was an ashy grayness
about his pallor in that hour that marked a difference. His face was
lined and seamed, not to say haggard. The mask of imperturbability he
usually wore was down. He looked old, tired, discouraged. His usual
iron self-control and calm had given place to an overwhelming
nervousness and incertitude. He waved his hands, he muttered to
himself, his mouth twitched awry from time to time as he walked.
"Well, messieurs," he began at last, in sharp, rather high-pitched
notes--even his voice sounded differently--as he lifted his eyes from
perusing the latest dispatch and faced the uneasy group by the fireplace,
"you are doubtless anxious to know the news." The Emperor stepped
over to the table as he spoke, and gathered up a handful of dispatches
and ran over them with his hands. "It is all set forth here: The Germans
and the English have shut up Carnot in Antwerp," he continued rapidly,
throwing one paper down. "The Bourbons have entered Brussels,"--he
threw another letter upon the table--"Belgium, you see, is lost.
Bernadotte has taken Denmark. Macdonald is falling back on Épernay,
his weak force growing weaker every hour. Yorck, who failed us once
before, is hard on his heels with twice, thrice, the number of his men.
Sacken is trying to head him off. The King of Naples seeks to save the
throne on which I established him by withdrawing from me now--the
poor fool! The way to Paris along the Marne is open, and Blücher is
marching on the capital with eighty thousand Russians, Prussians and
Bavarians. Schwarzenburg with many more is close at hand."
Something like a hollow groan broke from the breasts of the auditors as
the fateful dispatches fell one by one from the Emperor's hand. The
secretaries stopped writing and stared. The young officer by the door
clenched his hands.
"Sire----," said one of the officers, the rich trappings of whose dress
indicated that he was a Marshal of France. He began boldly but ended
timidly. "Before it is too late----"
Napoleon swung around and fixed his piercing eyes upon him, as his
voice died away. The Emperor could easily finish the uncompleted
sentence.

"What, you, Mortier!" he exclaimed.
"I, too, Sire," said another marshal more boldly, apparently encouraged
by the fact that his brother officer had broken the ice.
"And you, Marmont," cried the Emperor, transfixing him in turn with a
reproachful glance.
Both marshals stepped back abashed.
"Besides," said the Emperor gloomily, "it is already too late. I have
reserved the best for the last," he said with grim irony. "The courier
who has just departed is from Caulaincourt." He lifted the last dispatch,
which he had torn open a moment or two since. He shook it in the air,
crushed it in his hand, laughed, and those who heard him laugh
shuddered.
"What does the Duke of Vicenza say, Sire?" chimed in another
marshal.
"It is you, Berthier," said the Emperor. "You, at least, do not advise
surrender?"
"Not yet, Sire."
"But when?" asked Napoleon quickly. Without waiting for an answer to
his question, he continued: "The allies now graciously offer us--think
of it, gentlemen--the limits of 1791."
"Impossible!" cried a big red-headed marshal.
"They demand it, Prince of the Moskowa," answered the Emperor,
addressing Marshal Ney.
"But it's incredible, Sire."
"What!" burst out Napoleon passionately. "Shall we leave France less
than we found her, after all these victories, after all these conquests,
after all these submissions of kings and nations? Shall we go back to

the limits of the old monarchy? Never!"
"But, Sire----" began Marshal Maret.
"No more," said the Emperor, turning upon the Duc de Bassano.
"Rather death than that. While we have arms we can at least die."
He flashed an imperious look upon the assembly, but no one seemed to
respond to his appeal. The Emperor's glance slowly roved about the
room. The young captain met his look. Instantly and instinctively his
hand went up in salute, his lips framed the familiar phrase:
"Vive l'Empereur! Yes, Sire, we can still die for you," he added in a
low respectful voice, but with tremendous emphasis nevertheless.
He was a mere youth, apparently. Napoleon looked at him approvingly,
although some of the marshals, with clouded brows and indignant
words of protest at such an outburst from so young a man, would have
reproved him had not their great leader checked them with a gesture.
"Your name, sir," he said shortly to the young officer who had been
guilty of such an amazing breach of military decorum.
"Marteau, Sire. Jean Marteau, at the Emperor's service," answered the
young soldier nervously, realizing what impropriety he had committed.
"It remains," said the