The Eagle of the Empire

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[Frontispiece: The Little Countess takes Arms for Her Defence.]

THE EAGLE OF THE EMPIRE

A STORY OF WATERLOO

By CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY

AUTHOR OF

"The Island of Regeneration," "The Island of the Stairs,"
"Britton of the Seventh," Etc.

With Frontispiece

By THE KINNEYS

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers

New York

Published by Arrangements with GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

Copyright, 1915,

By GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

DEDICATION

Dedications have gone out of vogue save with the old fashioned. The
ancient idea of an appeal to a patron has been eliminated from modern
literature. If a man now inscribes a book to any one it is that he may
associate with his work the names of friends he loves and delights to
honor. There is always a certain amount of assurance in any such
dedication, the assurance lying in the assumption that there is honor
to the recipient in the association with the book. Well, there is no
mistaking the purpose anyway.

One of my best friends, and that friendship has been proved in war and
peace, at home and abroad, is a Bank! The Bank is like Mercy in more
ways than one, but particularly in that it is twice blessed; it is
blessed in what it receives, I hope, and in what it gives, I know.
From the standpoint of the depositor sometimes it is better to receive
than to give. It has been so in my case and I have been able to
persuade the Bank to that way of thinking.

Therefore, in grateful acknowledgment of the very present help it has
been to me in time of need and in public recognition of many courtesies
from its officers and directors, and as some evidence of my deep
appreciation of its many kindnesses to me, I dedicate this book to

THE MOUNT VERNON TRUST COMPANY

of

MOUNT VERNON, NEW YORK

PREFACE

The Battle of Waterloo, which was fought just one hundred years ago and
with which the story in this book ends, is popularly regarded as one of
the decisive battles of the world, particularly with reference to the
career of the greatest of all Captains. Personally some study has led
me to believe that Bautzen was really the decisive battle of the
Napoleonic wars. If the Emperor had there won the overwhelming victory
to which his combinations and the fortunes of war entitled him he would
still have retained his Empire. Whether he would have been satisfied
or not is another question; and anyway as I am practically alone among
students and critics in my opinions about Bautzen they can be
dismissed. And that he lost that battle was his own fault anyway!

However Napoleon's genius cannot be denied any more than his failure.
In this book I have sought to show him at his best and also almost at
his worst. For sheer brilliance, military and mental, the campaigning
in France in 1814 could not be surpassed. He is there with his raw
recruits, his beardless boys, his old guard, his tactical and
strategical ability, his furious energy, his headlong celerity and his
marvelous power of inspiration; just as he was in Italy when he
revolutionized the art of war and electrified the world. Many of these
qualities are in evidence in the days before Waterloo, but during the
actual battle upon which his fate and the fate of the world turned, the
tired, broken, ill man is drowsily nodding before a farmhouse by the
road, while Ney, whose superb and headlong courage was not accompanied
by any corresponding military ability, wrecks the last grand army.

And there is no more dramatic an incident in all history, I believe,
than Napoleon's advance on the Fifth-of-the-line drawn up on the
Grenoble Road on the return from Elba.

Nor do the Roman Eagles themselves seem to have made such romantic
appeal or to have won such undying devotion as the Eagles of the Empire.

This story was written just before the outbreak of the present European
war and is published while it is in full course. Modern commanders
wield forces beside which even the great Army of the Nations that
invaded Russia is scarcely more than a detachment, and battles last for
days, weeks, even months--Waterloo was decided in an afternoon!--yet
war is the same. If there be any difference it simply grows more
horrible. The old principles, however, are unchanged, and over the
fields upon which Napoleon marched and fought, armies are marching and
fighting in practically the same way to-day. And great Captains are
still studying Frederick, Wellington and Bonaparte as they have ever
done.

The author modestly hopes that this book may not only entertain by the
love story, the tragic yet happily ended romance within its pages--for
there is romance here aside from the great Captain and his
exploits--but that in a small way it may serve to set forth not so much
the brilliance and splendor and glory of war as the horror of it.

We are frightfully fascinated by war, even the most peaceable and
peace-loving of us. May this story help to convey to the reader some
of the other side of it; the hunger, the cold, the weariness, the
suffering, the disaster, the despair of the soldier; as well as the
love and the joy and the final happiness of the beautiful Laure and the
brave Marteau to say nothing of redoubtable old Bal-Arret, the
Bullet-Stopper--whose fates were determined on the battlefield amid the
clash of arms.

CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY.

THE HEMLOCKS,
EDGECLIFF TERRACE, PARK-HILL-ON-HUDSON.
YONKERS, N. Y.

EPIPHANY-TIDE, 1915.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE
VIVE L'EMPEREUR

BOOK I: THE EMPEROR AT BAY

Chapter

I. BEARERS OF EVIL TIDINGS
II. THE EMPEROR DREAMS
III. THE ARMY MARCHES AWAY
IV. MARTEAU AND BAL-ARRET RIDE
V. WHEN THE COSSACKS PASSED
VI. MARTEAU BARGAINS FOR THE WOMAN
VII. A RESCUE AND A SIEGE
VIII. A TRIAL OR ALLEGIANCE
IX. THE EMPEROR EATS AND RIDES
X. HOW MARTEAU WON THE CROSS
XI. AN EMPEROR AND A GENTLEMAN
XII. AN ALLIANCE DECLINED
XIII. THE THUNDERBOLT STROKE
XIV. THE HAMMER OF THE WAR GOD

BOOK II: THE EAGLE'S FLIGHT

XV. THE BRIDGE AT ARCIS
XVI. THE GATE IN THE WALL
XVII. A VETERAN OF THE ARMY OF ITALY
XVIII. ALMOST A GENTLEMAN
XIX. THE GREAT HONOR ROLL
XX. WHEN THE VIOLETS BLOOM AGAIN
XXI. LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
XXII. IN THE COUNTESS LAURE'S BED-CHAMBER
XXIII. THE MARQUIS GRANTS AN INTERVIEW
XXIV. ON THE WHOLE DEATH MAY BE BETTER THAN LIFE
XXV. NOT EVEN LOVE CAN FIND A WAY
XXVI. THEY MEET A LION IN THE WAY
XXVII. COMRADE! GENERAL! EMPEROR!

BOOK III: THE LAST TRY

XXVIII. AT THE STAMP OF THE EMPEROR'S FOOT
XXIX. WATERLOO--THE FINAL REVIEW
XXX. WATERLOO--THE CHARGE OF D'ERLON
XXXI. WATERLOO--THE LAST OF THE GUARD
XXXII. AT LAST THE EAGLE AND THE WOMAN

PROLOGUE

VIVE L'EMPEREUR

The weatherworn Chateau d'Aumenier stands in the midst of a noble park
of trees forming part of an extensive domain not far to the northwest
of the little town of Sezanne, in the once famous county of Champagne,
in France. The principal room of the castle is a great hall in the
oldest part of the venerable pile which dates back for eight hundred
years, or to the tenth century and the times of the famous Count Eudes
himself, for whom it was held by one of his greatest vassals.

The vast apartment is filled with rare and interesting mementos of its
distinguished owners, including spoils of war and trophies of the
chase, acquired in one way or another in the long course of their
history, and bespeaking the courage, the power, the ruthlessness, and,
sometimes, the unscrupulousness of the hard-hearted, heavy-handed line.
Every country in Europe and every age, apparently, has been levied upon
to adorn this great hall, with its long mullioned windows, its enormous
fireplace, its huge carved stone mantel, its dark oak paneled walls and
beamed ceiling. But, the most interesting, the most precious of all
the wonderful things therein has a place of honor to itself at the end
farthest from the main entrance.

Fixed against this wall is a broken staff, or pole, surmounted by a
small metallic figure. The staff is fastened to the wall by clamps of
tempered steel which are further secured by delicate locks of skillful
and intricate workmanship. The pole is topped by the gilded effigy of
an eagle.

In dimensions the eagle is eight inches high, from head to feet, and
nine and a half inches wide, from wing tip to wing tip. Heraldically,
"_Un Aigle Eploye_" it would be called. That is, an eagle in the act
of taking flight--in the vernacular, a "spread eagle." The eagle looks
to the left, with its wings half expanded. In its talons it grasps a
thunderbolt, as in the old Roman standard. Those who have ever
wandered into the Monastery of the Certosa, at Milan, have seen just
such an eagle on one of the tombs of the great Visconti family. For,
in truth, this emblem has been modeled after that one.

Below the thunderbolt is a tablet of brass, three inches square, on
which is a raised number. In this instance, the number is five. The
copper of which the eagle is molded was originally gilded, but in its
present battered condition much of the gilt has been worn off, or shot
off, and the original material is plainly discernible. If it could be
lifted its weight would be found to be about three and a half pounds.

Around the neck of the eagle hangs a wreath of pure gold. There is an
inscription on the back of it, which says that the wreath was presented
to the regiment by the loyal city of Paris after the wonderful Ulm
campaign.

One of the claws of the eagle has been shot away. The gold laurel
wreath has also been struck by a bullet, and some of its leaves are
gone. The tip of one wing is missing. The head of the eagle,
originally proudly and defiantly erect, has been bent backward so that,
instead of a level glance, it looks upward, and there is a deep dent in
it, as from a blow. And right in the breast gapes a great ragged
shot-hole, which pierces the heart of the proud emblem. The eagle has
seen service. It has been in action. It bears its honorable wounds.
No attempt has been made to repair it.

The staff on which the eagle stands has been broken at about half its
length, presumably by a bullet. The shattered, splintered end
indicates that the staff is made of oak. It had been painted blue
originally. The freshness of the paint has been marred. On one side,
a huge slice has been cut out of it as if by a mighty sword stroke.
The tough wood is gashed and scarred in various places, and there is a
long, dark blur just above the broken part, which looks as if it might
be a blood stain.

Below the eagle, and attached to the remainder of the staff for about
three-fourths of its length, is what remains of a battle flag. The
material of it was originally rich and heavy crimson silk, bordered
with gold fringe. It is faded, tattered, shot-torn, bullet-ridden,
wind-whipped; parts of it have disappeared. It has been carefully
mounted, and is stretched out so as to present its face to the
beholder. In dull, defaced letters of gold may be read
inscriptions--the imagination piecing out the missing parts. Here is a
line that runs as follows:

_Napoleon, Empereur des Francais, au 5e Infanterie
de la Ligne._

And underneath, in smaller and brighter letters, as if a later addition:

_Grenadiers du Garde Imperiale._

There has been some sort of device in the middle, but most of it has
disappeared. From what remains, one guesses that it was a facsimile of
the eagle on the staff-head. There are little tarnished spots of gold
here and there. A close observation discloses that they are golden
bees. In the corners near the staff, the only ones that are left are
golden wreaths in the center of which may be seen the letter "N".

On the other side of the flag, hidden from the beholder, are a series
of names. They have been transcribed upon a silver plate, which is
affixed to the wall below the broken staff. They read as follows:

"Marengo; Ulm; Austerlitz; Jena; Berlin; Eylau; Friedland; Madrid;
Eckmuhl; Wagram; Vienna; Smolensk; Moskowa; Bautzen; Leipsic;
Montmirail; Arcis."

Beneath this list is a heavy dash and below all in larger letters,
which unlike the rest have been filled with black enamel, is the last
word,

"WATERLOO."

The eagle, the staff, and the flag are enclosed and protected from
careless handling by a heavy glass case, the panes set in steel and
silver, and the doors carefully locked to prevent its being stolen
away. But its security is not entrusted to these inanimate materials
alone. Every hour of the day and night there keeps watch over it an
old soldier. He is armed and equipped as if for battle, in the uniform
of the old Fifth Regiment of the Line, somehow temporarily incorporated
in the Imperial Guard as a supplementary regiment of the Grenadiers
thereof. The black gaiters, the white trousers, the blue and scarlet
coat, with its crossed belts and brilliant decorations, the lofty
bearskin head-dress, are all strangely in keeping with the relic and
its surroundings.

Sometimes the soldier--and there are five of them whose sole and only
business it is to watch over the flag--paces steadily up and down in
front of it, like a sentry on his post. Sometimes he stands before it
at parade rest. As to each individual's movements, he suits his fancy.
These are old soldiers, indeed, highly privileged, veterans of twenty
campaigns, fifty pitched battles, and smaller affairs without number.
Their weatherbeaten faces are lined and wrinkled, their mustaches are
as white as snow.

The guard is always relieved at the appointed intervals with military
formality and precision. One soldier, older, taller than the rest, is
in command of the other four. From his buttonhole dangles from a white
ribbon a little cross of white enamel. Though he shows no insignia of
rank higher than that of a Sergeant of the Guard, he has won the proud
distinction of the Legion of Honor.

At one stated hour in the day, a tall, handsome, distinguished,
middle-aged man, wearing for the occasion the uniform of a colonel in
the Imperial Guard, a blood-stained, tarnished, battered, battle-worn
uniform, be it observed, comes into the room. He is more often than
not attended by a lovely lady of beauty and grace, in spite of her
years, who leads with either hand a handsome youth and a beautiful
maiden. The four soldiers are always present in full uniform under the
command of their sergeant at this hour. As the officer enters they
form line, come to attention, and present arms, a salute he gravely and
punctiliously acknowledges. Attendants follow, bearing decanters and
glasses; wine for the officer and his family, something stronger for
the soldiers. The glasses are filled. With her own fair hands, the
lady hands them to the men. When all are ready the officer holds up
his glass. The men, stacking arms, do the same. The eyes of all
glance upward. Above the eagle and the flag upon a shelf upon the wall
stands a marble head, product of Canova's marvelous chisel. It is
Napoleon. White it gleams against the dark stone of the old hall. At
a nod the soldiers face about, and----

"_Vive l'Empereur_," says the officer quietly.

"_Vive l'Empereur_," in deep and solemn tones repeats the old sergeant.

"_Vive l'Empereur_," comes from the lips of the four soldiers, and even
the woman and the young people join in that ancient acclaim.

The great Emperor is dead long since. He sleeps beneath the willows in
the low valley in the lonely, far-off, wave-washed islet of St. Helena.
But to these men he will never die. It is their blood that is upon
that eagle staff. It was in their hands that it received those wounds.
While they carried it, flung to the breeze of battle, it was shot-torn
and storm-riven. It is a priceless treasure to them all. As they
followed it with the ardor and devotion of youth so they now guard it
and respect it with the steadier but not less intense consecration of
maturity and old age.

The eagle of a vanished empire, the emblem of a fame that is past. It
is as real to them as when into the hands of one of them it was given
by the Emperor himself on the Champ de Mars so long ago when he was
lord of the world. And so long as they live they will love it,
reverence it, guard it, salute it as in the past.

BOOK I

THE EMPEROR AT BAY

CHAPTER I

BEARERS OF EVIL TIDINGS

The Emperor walked nervously up and down the long, low-ceiled
apartment, the common room of the public inn at Nogent. Grouped around
a long table in the center of the room several secretaries were busy
with orders, reports and dispatches. At one end stood a group of
officers of high rank in rich uniforms whose brilliance was shrouded by
heavy cloaks falling from their shoulders and gathered about them, for
the air was raw and chill, despite a great fire burning in a huge open
fireplace. Their cloaks and hats were wet, their boots and trousers
splashed with mud, and in general they were travel-stained and weary.
They eyed the Emperor, passing and repassing, in gloomy silence mixed
with awe. In their bearing no less than in their faces was expressed a
certain unwonted fierce resentment, which flamed up and became more
evident when the Emperor turned his back in his short, restless march
to and fro, but which subsided as suddenly when he had them under
observation. By the door was stationed a young officer in the uniform
of the Fifth Regiment of the infantry of the line. He stood quietly at
attention, and was evidently there on duty.

From time to time officers, orderlies and couriers came into the room,
bearing dispatches. These were handed to the young officer and by him
passed over to the Emperor. Never since the days of Job had any man
perhaps been compelled to welcome such a succession 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
Epernay, 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
Bluecher 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 Emperor, looking back at the marshals and their
aides, "for a beardless boy to set an example of devotion in which
Princes and Dukes of the Empire, Marshals of France, heroes of fifty
pitched battles, fail."

"We will die for you, Sire, for France, die with arms in our hands, if
we had them, and on the field of battle," began impetuous Ney.

"If we don't starve first, Sire," said cautious Berthier gloomily.

"Starve!" exclaimed the Emperor.

"The army is without food," said Marmont bluntly.

"It is half naked and freezing," added Victor.

"Ammunition fails us," joined in Oudinot.

"We have no arms," added Mortier.

"Do you, then, advise that we abandon ourselves to the tender mercies
of the allies?" asked Napoleon bitterly.

"Messieurs, it is surely better to die hungry and naked and without
arms for the Emperor than to consent to his dishonor, which is the
dishonor of France," suddenly burst forth the young man at the door.

"How dare you," thundered the usually cool and collected Berthier
angrily, "a mere boy, monsieur, assume to speak in the presence of the
Emperor, to say nothing of these great captains?"

"May my life be forfeit, _Monsieur le Duc_," said the young soldier
more boldly, since Napoleon had condoned his first remark, "if I have
done wrong in assuring my Emperor that we would still die for him."

"Of what regiment are you?" said Napoleon, waving Berthier of the
frowning face into silence.

"I belong to the fifth of the line, Sire."

"He is in my corps, Sire," said Ney. "I have brigaded that veteran
regiment with the new recruits of the Young Guard."

"But I have seen service before," said the young captain.

"And I have seen you before," said Napoleon, fixing upon him a
penetrating glance.

"Yes, Sire, at the end of the bridge over the Elster at Leipsic. You
were watching the men streaming across when the bridge was blown up. I
was among the last to cross the bridge."

"Go on," said the Emperor, as the young man paused.

"Your majesty was pleased to say----"

"I recall it all now. I saw you plunge into the river and bring back
to shore an Eagle--that of your regiment. You fell at my feet. You
should have had the Legion of Honor for it. I promised it to you, did
I not?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Why did you not claim it?"

"I was wounded and left for dead; when I got back to France and my
regiment I could not add to your anxiety by----"

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