For Love of a Bedouin Maid

On the seat opposite to them was a small box. The older man was endeavoring to dissuade the other from some course on which he seemed strongly bent.

"Be advised by me, Monsieur," he said, laying his hand persuasively on the other's arm; "do not move further in this matter. Let me order the postilions to turn their horses' heads again towards Paris. It is for your own sake I ask it."

"Pish! Abdallah," replied St. Just impatiently, "you waste your words; it is useless to attempt to turn me from ray purpose; I have taken my decision and will go through with it. Besides, do you suppose that, when I show to Josephine the proofs of her husband's design to divorce her and marry this Austrian Archduchess, she will flinch? No, rest assured that we shall gain our ends—at least I shall. For what other purpose, indeed, can she have appointed this meeting with me to-night?"

The Empress Josephine had given him many tokens that she was not indifferent to him, and, complimented by her notice, he had conceived for her a sort of passion; not such a passion as he had for Halima—for, had Halima remained true to him, he would not have given a thought to Josephine; and even now, his wife, had she so willed it, could have brought him to her feet again, with never a thought for any other woman—but an intimate relationship that, when leavened by compliments and risky phrases, and amorous sighs and suggestive glances, he chose to dignify by the name of love. He thought himself a very fine fellow, in that he dared to make advances to an Empress.

Abdallah saw that his protest might as well have been uttered to the winds, so he contented himself with a grunt and a shake of the head; meaning that it was a bad business and that he washed his hands of it.

No more was said between them, each remaining seated in moody silence, the while the carriage bowled along.

Presently it rattled across the bridge that spans the Seine; then they turned sharply to the left down an avenue leading to the palace gate. Here the carriage halted, and the occupants got out.

Instead of proceeding up the avenue, the main entrance to the palace, whose gloomy facade indistinctly loomed ahead of them, St. Just and his companion took a further detour to the left, bringing up, after a short walk, before a narrow gate. Abdallah took a key from his pocket and unlocked it; and both passed through.

They had but just re-closed it when a voice called out, "Hola! Who goes there?" and a tall sentry, topped with a huge bearskin that made him look gigantic in the gloom, seemed to spring out of the ground before them. He held his musket at the ready, and they could see the glimmering of the steel bayonet at its muzzle.

Before those challenged by the sentinel could make reply, another figure appeared upon the scene. He carried a lantern and, when he spoke, there was an air of authority about his tone that showed he was an officer.

"What's all this?" the words were shot out sharply.

"Not so last, Colonel Tremeau, I beseech you," said a peculiarly sweet voice behind the officer, and a woman in a superb evening toilette, but her head and shoulders enveloped in a shawl, emerged from a clump of trees and advanced to them. The lamplight was not strong enough to show her features, standing, as she was, in the shadow of the trees, but St. Just noticed that her figure was magnificent.

"I will answer for these gentlemen," she continued, "and, if that do not suffice you, here is an authority you will not dispute."

She handed the officer a ring of gold set with a superb single emerald. He glanced at it, and then, in a tone of some surprise he murmured, "The Empress' ring! Pass on, gentlemen," he went on aloud; "your authority is good enough. I did not know you were expected. Yet, stay; your names! It is my duty to obtain them. The names of all callers have to be sent in to the Palace Marshall for transmission to the Emperor."

"The Court jeweler and his assistant, with jewelry for Her Majesty," replied Abdallah sharply, and he held up the small box that had been on the carriage seat.

Colonel Tremeau seemed to hesitate, so once more the lady intervened:—

"Come, Sir, come; why this demeanor? These persons attend here by the orders of the Empress. She would make a present to one of her ladies, whose fête day is on the morrow."

The officer, without further parley, entered the particulars on his tablets; then moved aside to allow the men to pass, the lady leading the way. Following her they quickly traversed the garden, taking the path that led towards the "Bassin de Fer à Cheval." Thence, taking an avenue that bore southwards and lay parallel to the Seine, they emerged, after a short walk, upon an open space, whose center was occupied by a lofty tower, a replica of the monument of Lysicrates at Athens, recently erected by the Emperor.

Before this the lady halted. Then, opening a door, she invited them to enter. "The Empress is within," she said, "and is expecting you."

They passed into a room lighted by wax candles placed in sconces, and furnished with a rustic table and garden seats; and there were many windows in it.

At one of these, that faced the door, Josephine was seated. She was wearing a white evening gown, heavily embroidered with gold; a lovely and fascinating woman still, though at this time she was entering her tenth lustrum.

At their entrance she turned her face to her visitors—for she had been looking out of the window—and addressed them in a pleasant tone:—"Ah! gentlemen, I am glad you have arrived; I was beginning to fear you would disappoint me."

Both men bowed low, and St. Just made answer, "We made all speed, Your Majesty, and it has but this moment struck the hour at which you bade us come."

"Is that so?" rejoined the Empress. "Then I have been unreasonably impatient. But, when events of moment are in the balance, a weak woman may be pardoned for feeling thus. We are not fashioned to control ourselves like men."

"For which the good God be thanked," put in St. Just.

She shook her head at him reprovingly, but smiling archly; which showed that his speech had not displeased her. Then she addressed the lady. "Hermionie, you may take a stroll, or, if you prefer it, you may retire for the night. I shall not require your further services, and I have business with these gentlemen."

The lady, who had removed her shawl, displaying to St. Just a lovely face, dropped a low curtsey to the Empress, and withdrew. "The night is warm," she said, "I will take a stroll in the garden."

When the door had closed behind her, Josephine turned eagerly to the two men. "Now, gentlemen," she said, "let me hear the business you would discuss with me."

"Madame," replied St. Just, and he advanced to her and held out the charm she had given him in her husband's presence nearly ten years before; "unworthy though I am of the honor, I crave permission to recall myself to your remembrance by this token."

The sight of what he showed her had a strong effect upon her. Surprise and doubt and joy, all were printed on her countenance. Gradually doubt, and then surprise, died out of her face, and only delight remained. For, changed, though he was, she knew him. Again, for the third time, she had met the man who, without meaning it, had touched her heart at their first interview; whom she scarce durst acknowledge to herself she loved; whose life, by reason of that love, she had intervened to save.

"St. Just!" she panted. "It is, indeed, then you." Then, her voice still trembling with emotion, she turned to old Abdallah. "Leave us, my friend, I pray you, leave us. I would see Mons. St. Just alone."

The old man withdrew.

St. Just threw himself on his knees before her; then he seized her hand and covered it with kisses, she making no endeavor to release it.

"My Queen! My Empress!" he exclaimed with fervor. "By the memory of those halcyon days in the Forest of Fontainebleau when, in the guise of a woodcutter, I dwelt near you and feasted my eyes upon your grace and loveliness; when you would wander to my lonely hut, and our souls would commune in—dare I say it—love; in remembrance of those moments, I beseech you hear me."

He looked languishingly at Josephine and, for the time being, felt that he meant every word he said.

The Empress colored slightly in pleased confusion. "Two years ago," she murmured and she dropped her eyes; for in her, too, there was some make-believe. Then, as though the words had dropped from her unawares, she added, "Hush, I must not listen to such words, and you, Henri, must not utter them. Besides, foolish fellow, you know you do not mean them."

Now what more encouragement than this could a man desire? His protestations of affection were redoubled. "Nay, but by Heaven, I do, all and more."

"Stop, I beseech you. I cannot hear you; to do so would be dishonorable, as it is for you to speak in such a strain. Nay, you will anger me, if you proceed."

She was beginning to be fearful of herself; his words had moved her strangely. "But what has happened," she went on tenderly, "that has wrought this change in your appearance; a change so great that at first I failed to recognize you? You look years older than when last we met. Then your hair was black as the raven's wing; now it is fast whitening; you must have suffered much!" And, moved by the impulse of her gentle heart, without thinking what she did, she laid her hand upon his head and lightly stroked his hair.

St. Just leaped quickly to his feet and made as though he would have taken her in his arms. "You mistake me, Sir," she said, her breast heaving with agitation; "and you forget yourself and who and what I am. You must be mad, if you cannot distinguish between a woman's sympathy, and love. Restrain yourself, or this interview must end at once. Now tell me what is the matter on which you desired so urgently to see me; and I will pardon what has gone before."

At that moment, had not their minds been so intent on one another, they might have heard the sound of approaching footsteps; but love is often deaf, as well as blind.

"I have traveled night and day from the seat of war, to give you news that will cause you great unhappiness and destroy your peace of mind. But my sole reason is the hope that, being warned, you may be enabled to take measures to avert what is impending."

He paused before proceeding, to give the Empress time to prepare herself for what he had to say. She had an inkling of it, for vague rumors had reached her ears. But his words alarmed her greatly; her cheeks blanched, her features stiffened and a look of terror started to her eyes. For a moment she gazed at him, motionless and with parted lips. Then, "What is it?" she panted. "Tell me. Do not keep me in suspense; that I cannot bear. Do not fear for me; whatever it is, I shall make no scene. Only let me hear the worst at once. But, I fear, I greatly fear I guess it."

"The Emperor has tired of you and is meditating a divorce, and an alliance with the daughter of the Emperor of Austria."

Two persons, a man and woman, had just seated themselves below the window. Both started when they heard the words that had fallen from St. Just, and the woman would have uttered an exclamation; but the man instantly placed his hand before her mouth and whispered, "Hush! Hermionie, hush!"

St. Just continued, "Nay more, I know that both Talleyrand and Fouché have received instructions on the subject."

The Empress gazed at him in terror, grief and entreaty in her eyes. At first she seemed bereft of speech. But, in a few moments, she replied, "Alas! I feared he was losing his affection for me; but that he should contemplate divorcing me—such villainy I never dreamed of. But it cannot be; surely the laws of France would not permit it."

"I fear the laws of France will avail but little against Napoleon," replied St. Just. "At present he is France and can make such laws as suit him."

"Oh! I cannot believe it. Why, I am all the world to Napoleon. It is impossible that he could be so base, after his ardent protestations of affection."

She was trying to persuade herself that what she said was true; but intuitively she knew the contrary. For facts and rumors kept crowding to her mind, all tending to confirm the dreadful news. The vague stories of her husband's infidelities; his cold treatment and occasional cruel taunts when he found he had no hope of her giving him an heir; all these recollections flashed upon her now with added force, and murdered hope.

But, woman-like, she turned on her informant.

"Base traitor!" she exclaimed, "because I was weak enough to let you see that I have for you the sentiments of a friend, you dare to come to me and breathe slanders against my husband."

But she knew they were not slanders, and her momentary rage died out; St. Just was not to blame. She sank into a seat—for she had been standing—and sobbed without restraint.

At this juncture, the listeners outside the window moved away. The woman had risen first, and the man had tried to check her; but she had whispered angrily, "I will not be an eavesdropper," and had stepped away, and he had been obliged to follow her.

St. Just waited in silence until her tears had somewhat lessened. Then he spoke:

"Josephine, there is a chance of averting this calamity. What I have told you is absolutely true; but I can give you further news that, if judiciously employed, may turn Napoleon from his purpose. Listen; the Emperor of Russia and Talleyrand have come to the conclusion that England is their best ally, and are plotting to bring such an alliance into being. Moreover, Europe is secretly arming for the struggle with Napoleon. It may not come just yet, but it must come soon. Now, if you should warn the Emperor of all this, he might be grateful and, out of gratitude, abandon his intention of divorcing you. Read these papers, and you will see that I have grounds for what I say."

The Empress dried her tears and took the papers he handed to her; then settled herself to their perusal. They confirmed every word St. Just had uttered.

"Have you pen and ink and paper?" she said, when she had finished. He reopened the despatch box from which he had taken the papers, and handed her what she asked for.

She seated herself at the table and began to write, not as a suppliant, but as one who was conveying valuable information and stood firmly on her rights. Her exalted status gave her confidence. Her letter was lengthy and took some time in writing, and, meanwhile, not a word was exchanged between them. St. Just had thrown himself into a chair, and waited patiently.

At last she had disburdened her mind, and the scratching of the pen was stopped. She took the papers St. Just had given her, and tied them all together, with her own letter on the top. Then, on another sheet of paper, she scribbled the following words:

"On the Emperor's service. The bearer is a courier from the Empress. All who can are to help him in the name of France. Josephine."

This she sealed with her own seal and handed, with the packet of papers, to St. Just.

"There, I can do no more," she said. "God grant it may have the result I hope. Hide your very fastest," she continued; "lose not a moment by the way. You must reach Napoleon, ere he has had time to move in this nefarious scheme. And remember that the heart of the Empress goes with you to the Emperor."

"And dare I hope," he answered, "that the heart of Josephine goes with me too?"

She threw him a captivating glance, and smiled archly. Frivolous, and with no deep-seated feeling, as she was, the letter had revived her spirits, and she had persuaded herself that all would now be well.

"Foolish boy," she answered merrily. "Come and see me the moment you have achieved your errand, and you will find that Josephine is not ungrateful."

And with this he was compelled to be content.

Near the cascade, already mentioned, the man and the woman, who had overheard part of the conversation between the Empress Josephine and St. Just, were seated on a rustic bench. Their attitude, proclaimed that they were lovers, for the man's arm was round her waist, and her head was resting lovingly against his shoulder.

"Peace, Hermionie, peace, I say," the man said sharply. "I will hear no more. I repeat, it is for the good of the State. It must be done. Besides, the Emperor desires it; that suffices me!"

She turned from him petulantly like some spoilt child.

"It is cruel, it is unjust," she said, "and I hate cruelty and injustice, and will do all I can to oppose them. I repeat, I will tell the Empress what we have overheard, what was not intended for our ears. And Colonel Tremeau, I command you to keep secret what you have learned to-night." Then, in a softer tone, "Nay, I am wrong to use that tone. Dear Charles, if you love me, keep it secret."

Few men could have resisted her pleading tone, and still fewer gazed into her lovely face, without yielding to its entreaty; but this man was selfish and self-seeking to the core.

"You will do as you like," he answered in a hard, decisive tone, "as to telling the Empress; but," and he paused to emphasize what he was saying, "in that case, our marriage will not take place."

His cold, impassive tones sent an icy chill to his hearer's heart. His words seemed to admit of no appeal.

"Charles!" the girl faltered, "Oh! you must; I have your promise. After having taken advantage of my love, in a moment's weakness, and robbed me of that which a maiden holds most dear, you could not be so cruel, so dishonorable as to desert me, after what I have told you."

She shook with her emotion and burst into a flood of tears. Then she threw her soft white arms around his neck and kissed him passionately, as though to coax from him the concession that was her right.

For all his selfishness, the man was touched by this exhibition of despair and, to console her for the moment, he replied:

"There, there; don't weep, chérie. It shall be as you wish. I will give you the shelter of my name; it is your due. So dry your eyes, my darling; they do not become your pretty face. Trust your Charles. I will see that no one shall speak lightly of you."

His words were fair enough, but whether he would make them good the future should decide. All that he cared for now was to make her amenable to his will, with as little fuss as needs be. She was in his power, and he knew that she was bound to yield.

And she, poor trusting fool, believed, and the smiles broke through her tears.

"No, no," she said, "the world must never say that Hermionie de Vannes is less virtuous than she should be. And I never really doubted you, my Charles; I knew you were a man of honor and would be true to me. Kiss me, dearest, and say you are not angry with me, and forgive me that I ever seemed to doubt you; I will be guided wholly by you. I will do anything you wish, and say nothing to the Empress."

"Now you're my own little girl again," he said condescendingly, and he kissed her warmly.

"Hermionie! Hermionie! where are you?"

It was the Empress's voice across the garden calling her.

"The Empress," said the man. "Good night, my sweet; sleep soundly and dream of me; don't let your loving heart be troubled with anxious thoughts. All will be well with you."

He kissed her again, then sprang away into the darkness; and Hermionie hastened to the tower, where she found the Empress with St. Just standing by her side. It was on the verge of dawn, and they were gazing silently upon the view. Below them in the distance the Seine meandered, and to their left the bridge of St. Cloud could be just discerned.

The Empress was the first to speak.

"See, the clouds are breaking, the mists disperse, another day is dawning. We can just begin to see the green tops of the trees in the wood (the Bois de Boulogne); and yonder is Butte Montmartre, its summit crowned with those aged trees. Oh! how beautiful! And how fresh is everything in nature when the sun first wakes the world! See the first glimmer of his rays reflected far away on the dome of the Invalides. And now one can discern the shadowy forms of the houses of Paris emerging into view, as the mist floats slowly away. Ah! Paris, dear delightful, thoughtless, witty, restless, lively Paris, how I love you. But you are cruel too. Tell me my fate, you complex City. Will my Emperor return to me?"

She stretched her arms out appealingly to the slumbering city.

The birds were wakening into life and beginning to twitter amongst the shrubs; and some were already breaking into song. A lark was making melody in the sky above, carolling his earliest matins with joyous notes, trilling a welcome to the new-born day.

"Nature herself replies to your Majesty's behest," put in St. Just. "That bird forecasts your fate. Your life is to be one unending song."

He leaned forward and took her hand; then raised it to his lips.

"I would it might be so," she sighed; "but my mind misgives me. Come, Hermionie, it is time we sought our beds, if all the Palace is not to know of our proceedings. And you, sir," turning to St. Just, "ought not to tarry. I fear you will altogether miss your rest."

Once more he bent low over the Empress's hand. "In your service, Madame," he said gallantly, "I desire no rest. To do your will is a recreation in itself. And I pledge my word not to lay head to pillow, until I have handed your mission to the Emperor. Farewell, Madame, until I have redeemed my word."

She gave his hand a meaning pressure and whispered in his ear, "Farewell, and may God keep you. My heart goes with you, my true knight, my—lover!"

An hour later, he had started for the frontier, and was riding for all that he was worth; wholly unconscious that Colonel Tremeau had been closeted with the Palace Marshal detailing what he had overheard; and that, in consequence, the news was already on its way to Bounaparte.

CHAPTER IV

It was night, a few days later. From above in the spangled heavens the silver moon was shedding her softened beams upon the expiring camp fires; and along the range of hills, the bugle notes rang out, above the murmur of the camp, the order, "All lights out;" the signal for the wearied army to seek forgetfulness and repose in sleep.

Away to the left, from the burning village of Wagram flames ever and anon shot up, lighting the country round and casting a ruddy glow upon a tent pitched on a mound round which the French army was encamped. Above the tent, the emblem of France's glory, the tricolor flapped and floated in the breeze. At frequent intervals, two grenadiers of the Imperial Guard, who were pacing to and fro before the tent, paused in their sentry-go to listen anxiously; for on the right of the French lines, hard by the silver streak that marked the river Danube, the distant boom of artillery and the fainter rattle of musketry could be heard. Already then, the fighting had begun.

Within the tent sat the master of these legions. Untiringly, while all around him slept, he worked. He was writing, with feverish haste, at the desk that lay open upon the table, the dim lantern casting its feeble rays upon the pale, impressive face, and reflecting just a glimmer on the gilt buttons and epaulets of the green and red Chasseur uniform he wore.

Occasionally he paused to think, and, at such moments, his glance fell on the sleeping secretary, who was, doubtless, dreaming of his cherished wife and children away in sunny France.

"Pauvre enfant!" muttered the Emperor, and resumed his writing.

Suddenly he threw down his pen and rose to his feet; then stretched his limbs. He was cramped with long-continued writing. His sensitive ear had caught the sound of the firing, and he stepped quickly to the opening of the tent.

The noise grew louder, and he could even sniff the smoke from powder. Evidently the engagement was extending, and might jeopardize his position. An anxious look appeared upon his face. He turned his head within, and his eye traveled quickly round the tent and lighted on a long blue cloak that lay across his camp bed. This he threw over his shoulders; then, having buckled on his sword, he left the tent.

At sight of him, the two grenadiers presented arms. He carelessly acknowledged their salute, and then began to pace up and down the little plateau before the tent. As was usual with him when deep in thought, his hands were crossed behind his back, and his chin was bent down upon his breast.